'•MftlH  M 


>\ND  OTHER  POEMS 


ARTHUR  STRINGER 


UC-NRLF 


B    3    3M2    fi35 


THE  WOMAN   IN   THE   RAIN 

AND    OTHER    POEMS 


The  Woman 
in  the  Rain 

AND    OTHER    POEMS 

BY 

ARTHUR    STRINGER 

AUTHOR    OF 

"THE   WIRE  TAPPERS,"    "PHANTOM   WIRES,"    ETC. 


BOSTON 
LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND   COMPANY 

1907 


Copyright,  f<poy, 
By  Little,  Brown,  and  Company. 


All  rights  reserved 
Published  November    1907 


COLONIAL   PRESS 

Electrotyped  and  Printed  by    C.    H<   Simonds  &   Co. 

Boston,  U.S.  A. 


DEDICATION 

T If  HAT  bird  that  climbs  the  cool  dim  Dawn 
*'      But  loves  the  air  its  wild  wings  roam  ? 

And  yet  when  all  the  day  is  gone 

But  turns  its  weary  pinions  home, 

And  when  the  yellow  twilight  -fills 

The  lonely  stretches  of  the  West, 

Comes  down  across  the  darkened  hills, 

Once  more  to  its  remembered  nest  ? 

And  I  who  strayed,  0  Fond  and  True, 

To  seek  that  glory  fugitive 

And  -fleeting  music  that  is  You, 

But  echoes  oj  yourself  can  give 

As  through  the  waning  gold  I  come 

To  where  the  Dream  and  Dreamer  meet: 

Yet  should  my  faltering  lips  be  dumb, 

I  lay  these  gleanings  at  your  feet! 


330303 


Prefatory    Note 


"  Sappho  in  Leucadia,"  in  shorter  form,  was  first  pub- 
lished in  London,  four  years  ago.  In  the  same  year  Ains- 
lee's  Magazine  printed  certain  parts  of  the  play  dealing 
with  Sappho's  love  for  Phaon.  Portions  of  "  The  Passing 
of  Aphrodite  "  appeared  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly  under 
the  title  of  "  Hephaestus."  Likewise  some  of  the  shorter 
poems  in  this  book  have  been  printed  in  periodicals,  and 
I  am  indebted  to  the  editors  of  the  following  magazines 
for  permission  to  reissue  such  verses:  The  Canadian, 
The  Oxford,  The  Bookman,  The  Century,  The  Smart  Set, 
The  American,  The  Reader,  Ainslee's,  McClure's,  Every- 
body's and  Harper's. 

A.    S. 


CONTENTS 


Dedication 

The  Passing  of  Aphrodite 

1 

The  Modern    Speaks     . 

9 

Omar  Khayyam 

IO 

War 

ii 

On  an  Old  Battleground  . 

12 

A  Woman  Sang      . 

13 

Non  Omnis  Moriar 

18 

The  Anarchist       . 

18 

On  a  Child's  Portrait 

19 

At  the  Tragedy    . 

20 

The  Final  Lesson 

22 

The  Old  Garden 

23 

Philosophies  .... 

27 

The   Seer         .... 

28 

The  Song- sparrow  in  Novembe 

R. 

28 

The  Woman  in  the  Rain     . 

29 

Sleep  and  Death  . 

35 

In  the  Open  .... 

36 

White    Nights 

37 

The  Wordless  Touch  . 

•       38 

The  Knight  Errant 

■       38 

yijj  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Morning  in  the  North  -  west     ....  42 

Beside  the  Martyrs'  Memorial         ...  43 

Dreams 44 

The  Daughter  of  Demeter        ....  44 

On  the  Open  Trail 53 

Night   Travel 54 

Under  the  Stars 54 

Gifts 55 

Two  Captives 56 

When  Closing  Swinburne $6 

The  Shadowing  Gods 56 

Keats 57 

The  Shadow 58 

Un anointed  Altars 59 

On  a  Chopin  Nocturne 60 

The  Wanderers 61 

At  the  Comedy 63 

An  Epitaph 64 

The  Man  Who  Killed 65 

On  a  Portrait  of  R.  L.  S 74 

Northern  Pines 75 

On  Re-reading  Hamlet 76 

The  Singers 77 

Riches 78 

When  the  King  Comes  into  His  Own       .        .  79 

The  Seekers 80 

Death  and  a  Child 81 

Life  and  Labor     .......  82 

Lyonors   of    Lyonesse  ......  83 

In   the   Temple   of    Neptune      .        .        .         .87 


CONTENTS 


IX 


The  Sonata   Appassionata 

PAGE 

.       88 

My  Friend,  the  Enemy 

•       9° 

The  Musician  Speaks  in  Candor 

.       90 

Sunset  in  the  Far  North  . 

.       90 

A  Woman's  Hand  . 

.       91 

The  Age  of  Laughter 

.       92 

She  Seemed  a  Wild  Bird 

•       93 

Labor       .... 

•       93 

Destiny   . 

.  • 

■       94 

The  Keeper    . 

. 

94 

The  Two  Rooms 

. 

95 

Memories 

. 

96 

The  Ascent  of  Man 

97 

The  Shadowing  Past    . 

98 

The  Storm 

99 

The  Lure  o'  Life  . 

100 

A  Dialogue  in  Spring  . 

102 

From  the  Poet's  Corner     . 

108 

The  Fugitive  . 

109 

A  Song  for  the  Road 

no 

Art's  Futilities    . 

112 

Remorse  

112 

A  Rhymer's  Epilogue  . 

113 

Sappho  in  Leucadia 

115 

The  Three  Voices 

•        ■ 

264 

The  Woman  in  the  Rain 


THE    PASSING    OF    APHRODITE 

(It  was  Zeus,  the  father  of  life,  who  gave  Aphrodite,  the  most 
beautiful  of  the  goddesses,  in  marriage  to  his  son  Hephaestus. 
Hephaestus,  we  are  told,  later  found  that  his  wife  loved  and  was 
loved  by  his  own  brother  Ares.  So  the  husband,  who  speaks 
below,  voluntarily  surrendered  the  goddess  to  this  younger  and 
more  favored  brother.) 

npHIS  is  the  woman  that  the  dreaming  hours 

Of  all  the  world  delivered  unto  you ! 
This  is  the  woman  —  look !      These  are  the  eyes 
That  made  the  moonlight  lean  upon  the  sea 
And  filled  the  earth  with  pulsing  loveliness 
And  turned  the  quiet  winds  of  night  to  wine ! 
These  are  the  lips  that  paved  the  world  with  pain 
And  threw  a  mist  about  you  as  you  turned 
Reluctant-eyed  away !     This  is  the  breast 
(While  shield  and  sword  and  greave  lay  in  the  dew) 
That  made  all  waking  life  an  empty  thing 
Once  whispered  of  by  ghosts  in  ghostly  tones ! 
So  take  her,  Ares !  ...  As  Demeter  mourned 


2  THE   PASSING    OF  APHRODITE 

Through  many-fountained  Enna,  I  must  grieve 

A  time  forlorn,  and  fare  alone,  and  learn, 

Some  still  autumnal  twilight  by  her  sea 

Pale  gold  with  sunlight,  to  remember  not ! 

For  as  the  pine  foregoes  the  pilgrim  thrush, 

I,  sad  of  heart  yet  unimpassioned,  yield 

To  you  this  surging  bosom  soft  with  dreams, 

This  body  fashioned  of  ^Egean  foam 

And  langorous  moonlight.     Yet  I  give  you  not 

The  eluding  soul  that  in  her  broods  and  sleeps, 

And  ne'er  was  mine  of  old,  nor  can  be  yours. 

It  was  not  born  of  sea  and  moon  with  her, 

And  though  it  nests  within  her,  no  weak  hand 

Of  hers  shall  cage  it  as  it  comes  and  goes, 

Sorrows  and  wakens,  sleeps  and  sings  again. 

It  was  not  mine  to  give,  nor  mine  to  guard. 

Though  all  the  stars  were  ours  to  sentinel 

The  night  through  which  it  moves,  no  god  or  man 

Could  chain  and  hold  that  heart,  and  call  it  his. 

And  so  I  give  you  but  the  hollow  lute, 

The  lute  alone,  and  not  the  voices  low 

That  sang  of  old  to  some  forgotten  touch. 

The  lamp  I  give,  but  not  the  glimmering  flame 

Some  fragile  hand  withholds,  some  mystic  dusk 

Enisles  in  Love's  last  naked  loneliness. 

The  shell  I  give  you,  Ares,  not  the  song 

Of  murmuring  winds  and  waves  once  haunting  it; 

The  cage,  but  not  the  wings  that  come  and  go. 


THE  PASSING   OF  APHRODITE 

I  give  them,  Ares,  as  the  passive  earth 

Gives  up  the  dew,  the  mountain-side  the  mist ! 

Farewell,  sad  face,  that  gleamed  so  like  a  flower 
Through  Paphian  groves  to  me  of  old,  —  farewell ! 
Some  fate  beyond  our  dark-robed  Three  ordained 
This  love  should  wear  the  mortal  rose,  and  not 
Our  timeless  amaranth.     'Twas  writ  of  old,  and  lay 
Not  once  with  us.    As  we  ourselves  have  known, 
And  well  your  sad  Dodonian  mother  found, 
From  deep  to  deep  the  sails  of  destined  love 
Are  blown  and  tossed  by  tides  no  god  controls; 
And  at  the  bud  of  our  too  golden  life 
Eats  this  small  canker  of  mortality. 

I  loved  her  once,  O  Ares  — 
I  loved  her  once  as  waters  love  the  wind; 
I  sought  her  once  as  rivers  seek  the  sea; 
And  her  deep  eyes,  so  dream-besieged,  made  dawn 
And  midnight  one.    Flesh  of  my  flesh  she  was, 
And  we  together  knew  dark  days  and  glad. 
Then  fell  the  change.    Some  hand  unknown  to  us 
Shook  one  white  petal  from  the  perfect  flower 
And  all  the  world  grew  old.    Ah,  wTho  shall  say 
When  Summer  dies,  or  when  is  blown  the  rose? 
Or  where  the  light  of  some  lone  torch  becomes 
The  twilight  and  the  shadow  and  the  dark? 
Who,  wrho  shall  say  just  wrhen  the  quiet  star 


4  THE  PASSING   OF  APHRODITE 

Out  of  the  golden  west  is  born  again, 

Or  when  the  gloaming  saddens  into  night? 

'Twas  writ,  in  truth,  of  old;   the  tide  of  love 

Has  met  its  turn,  the  long  horizon  lures 

The  homing  bird,  the  harbor  calls  the  sail. 

Home,  home  to  your  glad  heart  she  goes,  while  I 

Fare  on  alone,  and  only  broken  dreams 

Abide  with  me !    And  yet  when  she  and  you 

Shall  tread  those  loneliest  paths  of  mortal  love 

That  mount  and  circle  to  the  uttermost 

White  solitude  of  Rapture,  and  there  breathe 

Some  keener  air  grown  over-exquisite, 

And  look  through  purpling  twilight  on  the  world, 

Dream  not  my  spirit  follows  nevermore 

Those  glimmering  feet  that  gladly  walked  with  me, 

Xor  say  my  passion  by  your  passion  paled. 

But  lower  than  the  god  the  temple  stands. 

As  deeper  is  the  sea  than  any  wave, 

Sweeter  the  Summer  than  its  asphodel, 

So  love  far  stronger  than  this  woman  is. 

She  from  the  untiring  Ocean  took  her  birth, 

And  from  torn  waves  and  foam  her  first  faint  breath; 

Child  of  unrest  and  change,  still  through  her  sweeps 

Her  natal  sea's  tumultuous  waywardness. 

And  as  she  comes  and  goes  one  little  cloud 

Curls  upward  from  the  altar  —  but  the  grove 

And  god  endure,  and  know  not  change  or  death ! 


THE   PASSING    OF  APHRODITE 

Yet  she  shall  move  the  strange  desires  of  men; 
Her  mild  auroral  brow  shall  flash  and  burn 
Before  the  world  for  other  eyes  than  ours ! 
Yea,  while  you  call  her  yours,  a  thousand  youths 
Shall  live  and  die  for  her  soft  loveliness ! 
And  you  shall  guard  her  as  the  Ocean  guards 
Its  shores  of  tenderest  green,  till  wave  by  wave 
The  melting  hills  surrender  to  the  deep,  — 
But  she  will  whisper  through  the  silences 
Of  night  when  nothing  seems  to  breathe  and  move, 
And  back  in  moonbeams  she  will  come  to  them 
Beseechingly,  —  and  they  shall  be  with  her, 
As  leaves  with  light,  as  waters  with  the  Sea ! 
For  in  her  lie  dim  glories  that  she  dreams 
Not  of,  and  o'er  her  rests  a  floating  crown 
Her  Cyprian  eyes  ne'er  saw;    and  evermore 
Round  her  pale  face  shall  pleading  faces  press; 
Round  her  shall  mortal  passion  beat  and  ebb; 
And  evermore  as  waves  break  white,  and  foam, 
And  die  away  on  bars  of  brooding  green, 
Madly  shall  lives  on  her  soft  beauty  break ! 
When  yours  she  is,  and  in  ambrosial  glooms 
You  secretly  would  chain  her  kiss  by  kiss, 
Though  close  you  hold  her  in  your  hungering  arms 
And  with  voluptuous  pantings  you  and  she 
Mingle,  and  seem  the  insentient  moment  one, 
Yet  will  your  groping  soul  but  lean  to  her 
Across  the  dusk,  as  hill  to  lonely  hill; 


6  THE   PASSING   OF  APHRODITE 

And  in  your  warmest  raptures  you  shall  learn 

There  is  a  citadel  surrenders  not 

To  every  captor  of  the  outer  walls; 

In  sorrow  you  shall  learn  there  is  a  light 

Illumines  not,  a  chamber  it  were  best 

To  leave  untrod ! 

O  Ares,  dread  the  word 
That  silences  this  timorous  nightingale, 
The  touch  that  wakens  strings  too  frail  for  sound, 
The  hand  that  crushes  from  the  fluttering  wing 
The  fragile  wonder  and  the  woven  gold ! 
For,  giving  her,  I  gain  what  you  shall  lose; 
Forsaking  her,  I  hold  her  closer  still. 
The  sea  shall  take  a  deeper  sound;   the  stars 
Stranger  and  more  mysterious  henceforth 
Shall  seem ;   the  darkening  sky-line  of  the  West 
For  me,  the  solitary  dreamer,  now  shall  hold 
Voices  and  faces  that  I  knew  not  of ! 
More,  henceforth,  shall  all  music  mean  to  me, 
And  she,   through  lonely  musings,  ever  seem 
As  beautiful  as  are  the  dead. 

But  you  — 
You  in  your  hand  shall  watch  the  withering  rose, 
Shall  hold  the  loosened  chord,  the  sundered  veil, 
The  golden  wings  that  ne'er  can  fly  again ! 
So  love  vour  hour,  bright  god,  ere  it  is  lost, 


THE   PASSING   OF  APHRODITE 

A  swan  that  sings  its  broken  life  away ! 

In  that  brief  hour,  'tis  writ,  you  shall  hear  breathe 

From  some  enchanted  home  strange  harmonies, 

Then  mourn  life's  silent  throats  for  evermore,  — 

Yea,  you  shall  find  the  altar  when  its  fires 

Turn  ashes  and  the  worship  vain  regret. 

A  mystic  law  more  strong  than  all  delight 

Or  pain  shall  each  delicious  rapture  chill, 

Exacting  sternly  for  each  ecstasy; 

And  when  her  voice  enwraps  you,  and  in  arms 

Luxurious  your  softest  langor  comes, 

Faintly  torn  wings  shall  flutter  for  the  Sun, 

Madly  old  dreams  shall  struggle  toward  the  light, 

And,  drugged  with  opiate  passion,  you  shall  know 

Dark  days  and  shadowy  moods  when  she  may  seem 

To  some  dusk  underworld  enchaining  you. 

Yet  I  shall  know  her  as  she  was  of  old, 

Fashioned  of  moonlight  and  yFgean  foam; 

Some  visionary  gleam,  some  glory  strange 

Shall  day  by  day  engolden  her  lost  face; 

The  slow  attrition  of  the  years  shall  wear 

Xo  luring  charm  away,  and  she  shall  live 

A  lonely  star,  a  gust  of  music  sweet, 

A  voice  upon  the  Deep,  a  mystery ! 

But  in  the  night,  I  know,  the  lonely  wind 
Shall  sigh  of  her,  the  restless  Ocean  moan 
Her  name  with  immemorial  murmurings, 


8  THE   PASSING    OF  APHRODITE 

The  sad  and  golden  summer  moon  shall  mourn 

With  me,  and  through  the  gloom  of  rustling  leaves 

The  shaken  throats  of  nightingales  shall  bring 

Her  low  voice  back,  the  incense  of  the  fields 

Recall  too  well  the  odor  of  her  hair, 

The  white  and  rose  and  wonder  of  the  dawn 

Rebuild  in  my  most  secret  heart  of  heart 

The  marble  of  her  body  touched  with  fire ! 

Yet  life  in  time  must  put  away  the  thing 

That  is  no  longer  life;  and  as  the  leaves 

Of  other  years  are  lost,  each  dream  of  her 

Shall  die  and  be  entombed;  and  in  the  end 

I  quietly  shall  watch  where  hill  and  plain 

Throb  through  their  dome  of  brooding  hyaline, 

And  see,  from  Athens  gold  to  Indus  gray, 

From  Albis  down  to  Ophir,  other  worlds 

Awaiting  me,  and  unembittered  go, — 

Go  down  among  the  toilers  of  the  Earth 

And  seek  the  rest,  the  deeper  peace  that  comes 

Of  vast  endeavor  and  the  dust  of  strife. 

There  my  calm  soul  shall  know  itself,  and  watch 

The  golden-sandalled  Seasons  come  and  go, 

Still  god-like  in  its  tasks  of  little  things; 

And,  woven  not  with  grandeurs  and  red  wars, 

Wanting  somewhat  in  gold  and  vermeil,  shall 

The  Fates  work  out  my  life's  thin  tapestry, 

As  Sorrow  brings  me  wisdom,  and  the  pang 

Of  solitude,  O  Ares,  keeps  me  strong ! 


THE   MODERN  SPEAKS 


THE    MODERN    SPEAKS 

,\X/'HEX  I.  who  have  joyed  in  my  work, 

Who  have  loved,  have  taken  my  fling, 
Have  hungered,  forgotten,  been  glad, 
Have  hated  the  hand  that  would  shirk 
The  honey  of  life  for  the  sting, 
Have  housed  with  the  good  and  the  bad  — 
I  ask,  when  the  years  shall  bring 
To  this  weariness  need  of  sleep: 
Be  it  not,  gray  Death,  that  I  bend 
When  the  salt,  cold  wind  shall  creep 
Through  the  grim-houred  slag  at  the  end, 
And  the  hulk  drops  out  to  its  Deep  — 
Be  it  not  that  I  shake  and  bend 
At  the  thought  of  the  End ! 

But  if  battered  and  torn  and  weak, 
Should  the  flesh  at  the  last  forget, 
In  my  might  of  a  man  I  speak 
With  a  strength  that  is  mine  as  yet : 

Though  ground  in  the  great  slow  mill, 
And  shattered  and  bowed  with  pain, 


IO  THE   MODERN  SPEAKS 

Though  the  hooves  of  the  years,  are  wet 
With  my  blood  and  my  tears  of  shame, 
In  the  core  of  me,  conquering  still, 
This  man's  good  might  shall  remain, 
And  none  of  me,  me  shall  you  break  — 
But  a  reed,  whereon  Rapture  has  blown, 
But  a  bugle  that  none  can  awake, 
But  a  tomb  that  is  coffin  and  stone, 
But  a  torch  now  forlorn  of  its  flame, 
But  a  cage  with  the  music  all  flown, 
This,  this  you  can  shatter  and  take, 
This  husk  of  my  days  you  can  claim, 
Not  the  Life  I  have  known ! 


4r 


OMAR    KHAYYAM 


D 


iEEP  in  the  spring  their  empty  pitcher  dips, 
Dips  where  of  old  a  thousand  sorrows  fell. 
Forget  not  while  the  gurgling  water  slips 
Lightiy  from  earthen  throats,  the  silent  Well 


WAR  II 


WAR 


pROM  hill  to  hill  he  harried  me; 

He  stalked  me  day  and  night; 
He  neither  knew  nor  hated  me; 
Nor  his  nor  mine  the  fight. 

He  killed  the  man  who  stood  by  me, 

For  such  they  made  his  law; 
Then  foot  by  foot  I  fought  to  him, 

Who  neither  knew  nor  saw. 

I  trained  my  rifle  on  his  heart; 

He  leapt  up  in  the  air. 
The  screaming  ball  tore  through  his  breast, 

And  lay  embedded  there. 

Lay  hot  embedded  there,  and  yet 

Hissed  home  o'er  hill  and  sea 
Straight  to  the  aching  heart  of  one 

Who'd  wronged  not  mine  nor  me ! 


12  ON  AN  OLD   BATTLEGROUND 


ON  AN  OLD  BATTLEGROUND 

TT ALLEY  and  farmland  meet  the  West, 

Purple  and  gold  and  green ; 
Orchard  and  vineyard,  song  and  rest 
Where  their  old  sad  wars  have  been ! 

Over  the  gleaners  lightly  sings 
The  lark  to  the  falling  sun,  — 

Over  that  grave  of  far-off  things, 
And  old  wars  lost  and  won ! 

And  over  the  hills  where  long  ago 
Their  old-world  warriors  met, 

How  sweet  the  purple  vineyards  grow, 
How  well  the  fields  forget ! 


A    WOMAN  SANG  13 


A  WOMAN  SANG 


'"PHE  low-toned  Music  rose,  complainingly, 

And  like  a  languid  tide  through  whispering  reeds 
In  solemn  unconcern  it  swept  our  souls. 
We  listened,  and  the  silence  fell  again. 
And  then  you  sang. 

Then  through  the  waiting  hush 
Soft  pleadings  surged  and  broke  and  sighed  away, 
And  falling  note  by  note  like  April  rain 
Enriched  our  arid  lives,  and  made  old  griefs 
Take  wing  and  seem  no  longer  grief  to  us. 
Regret  itself,  through  easing  Melody, 
Was  robbed  of  bitterness,  and  Memory 
No  longer  sat  alone  with  muted  lip, 
And  Love,  with  all  its  tear-bewildered  heart 
And  weariness  of  Joy,  found  voice  again, 
And  seemed  to  walk  with  God ! 

You  sang  to  us, 
And  through  the  pulsing  silence  breathed  and  throbbed 
A  haunting  beauty  that  was  more  than  prayer 
And  winged  passion  and  too  wide  desire ! 


14  A    WOMAN  SANG 

It  made  ineloquent  each  moaning  string, 

It  left  half-inarticulate  each  bow 

That  sobbed  with  broken  sound,  it  sweeter  was 

Than  all  their  brazen-throated  instruments 

Commingling  cunningly;  it  soothed  away 

Earth's  ages  dark  with  pain  and  dissonance, 

And  we  who  most  knew  Life,  remembered  most ! 

Yet  joyous  too  it  was,  this  mystical 
Soft  measured  sound  and  tone  melodious, 
That  beat  by  beat  like  morning  birds  uprose, 
That  wave  by  wave  like  cooling  seas  assuaged. 
As  with  some  wine  unknown  it  seemed  to  give 
To  wonder  and  slow  speech  the  gift  of  wings. 
Our  old  and  long-houred  glooms,  before  it,  paled 
To  god-like  unconcern;  in  past  the  gate 
And  sentry  of  grim  Sorrow  on  the  wings 
Of  song  our  hostage  dreams  flew  home  again; 
And  happiness,  through  Music,  closer  leaned, 
And  life,  and  all  that  we  had  thought  that  life 
Should  mean,  because  of  Music,  deeper  grew ! 

n 

Yet  while  your  lyric  soul  flamed  out  its  fire, 
O  Singing  Woman  who  was  naught  to  us,  — 
And  lulled  our  ears  with  easing  melodies, 
We  could  not  in  your  music  be  quite  glad. 
Joyous  it  seemed,  yet  joyous  it  was  not, 


A    WOMAN  SANG  15 

This  prodigal  release,  this  grapeless  wine 

That  gushed  through  all  our  soul  and  wakened  life. 

Weighted  with  sorrows  old  as  Earth  it  was; 

Burdened  with  records  dark  as  night  it  fell. 

For  not  as  waters  sing,  nor  wakened  birds, 

You  sang  to  us  who  should  have  joyous  heard, 

Had  we  not  seen  too  far  beyond  the  bourne 

Of  Past  and  Future  and  been  strangely  moved 

By  undertones  of  half-remembered  things. 

For  not  in  your  rapt  breast  and  body  warm 

This  Song  was  born,  nor  of  your  spirit  grew. 

Deep  in  each  note  che  ache  of  ages  sleeps. 

A  thousand  voices  failed  and  paled  for  it ; 

A  thousand  bosoms  grieved  and  sobbed  for  it; 

A  thousand  decades  aged  and  died  for  it; 

And  grimly  through  each  slow-perfected  strain 

Across  the  hungry  gulfs  of  time  we  hear 

Thin  echoes  of  each  cry  that  gave  it  birth. 

In  undertone,  from  your  untrammelled  throat 

We  hear  that  wailing  call  original 

Of  earth's  primeval  Soul,  a  Pagan  Thing 

Still  unappeased  amid  its  lonely  night, 

A  waking  spirit  in  the  twilight  strange 

A  raucous  Wonder  groping  up  to  God ! 

Yea,  even  when  a  child  sings,  thoughtlessly, 

When  song  from  her  throat  bubbles,  as  from  springs 

Sweet  waters  rise,  and  glad  of  careless  life, 

With  girlhood  eyes  upon  Tomorrow  turned, 


l6  A    WOMAN  SANG 

She  sings  most  artlessly,  and  knows  no  tears 
And  no  regret  and  no  dark  Yesterday, 
Still  deep  entombed  in  her  is  all  the  Past, 
And  groping  from  her  heart  to  greet  the  day 
Are  strange  persistent  ghosts,  and  from  her  eyes 
Peer  pitiful  and  unperceived  eyes ! 

m 

For  once,  in  fires  of  anguish  now  unknown 

Was  smelted  this  sweet  silver  of  delight; 

In  earth's  deep  furnace  of  the  Dead  was  fused 

The  gold  of  all  this  careless-noted  Song. 

For  through  this  gift  ancestral,  thrice-refined, 

Still  down  unto  her  babe  some  She-Thing  barks, 

Some  uncouth  heart  shrills  out  its  early  hate, 

Some  ancient  breast  moans  out  its  muffled  prayer, 

Some  lust  original  gropes  up  to  love. 

Dusk  aeons,  inarticulate,  unknown, 

Have  huddled  into  you  its  crowded  cries. 

Out  of  your  throat  these  throats  of  long  ago 

Wail  and  aspire,  lament,  caress,  and  pray. 

A  thousand  nights  of  want  have  taught  it  grief, 

A  thousand  hungers  and  a  thousand  tears 

Have  schooled  it,  see,  to  break  and  die  away, 

To  touch  our  idler  hearts  with  pleasing  woe. 

A  thousand  ghostly  bosoms  tenderly 

Once  nourished  dark  this  root  of  regal  song, 

And  women  that  you  know  not  of,  through  you 


A    WO  MAX  SANG  1 7 

As  through  a  pipe,  forever  cry  and  plead; 

Across  the  muffled  strings  of  being  stray 

Their  ghostly  hands,  with  all  their  ghostly  chords. 

Deep  under  our  glad  grasses  ever  lie 

The  savage  skull  and  ashes  overgrown, 

The  ghosts  that  will  not  die,  but  day  and  night 

Sweep  through  our  lives,  and  pace  our  troubled  hearts, 

And  make  us  sorrow  when  we  would  be  glad, 

And  make  us  wonder  when  we  should  be  wise. 

We  dwell  upon  the  Dead,  and  day  by  day 

We  die  a  little  that  the  world  may  live. 

Thought-free  we  can  no  longer  fare;  we  are 

A  haunted  folk;  our  stillest  eve  is  thronged 

With  spectral  voices;  our  most  quiet  dawn 

Is  stirred  with  whispers  from  the  tombed  past ! 

IV 

And  this  immortal  makes  mortality, 

This  is  the  most  that  we  may  ask  of  life, 

This  echo  of  ourselves  abiding  still 

In  others,  creeping  up  the  slopes  of  Time 

Where  God  and  Aspiration  stand  as  one ! 

And  since  all  temporal  things  toward  Beauty  trend 

To  live,  however  slow  they  move  and  deep, 

Let  us  be  glad  of  Music,  and  more  glad. 

My  troubled  Soul,  remembering  'twas  man 

Distilled  through  all  the  years  this  ageing  wine 

Of  song,  from  Earth's  dark  ferment  of  hrst  speech  ! 


1 8  NON  OMNIS   MORIAR 


NON   OMNIS   MORIAR 

TN  the  teeth  of  the  Word  that  bars  my  track, 

In  the  swirl  of  the  Ebb  that  sucks  me  down, 
In  the  face  of  the  storm  that  flings  me  back 
On  the  wrath  of  a  Deep  grown  mountainous- walled, 
I,  7,  tide  by  tide,  and  tack  by  tack, 
As  far  as  the  chains  will  let  me  free, — 
I  threading  a  course  unbuoyed  and  black, 
And  feeling  the  Night  where  fanged  rocks  frown, 
Ere  the  last  spar  fail  shall  have  somehow  crawled 
To  that  Port  whence  shone  no  light  for  me ; 
Where  wrecked,  if  you  will,  but  unappalled, 
I  shall  know  I  am  stronger  than  my  Sea ! 


* 


THE   ANARCHIST 

Ij*ROM  out  her  golden  palace  Fortune  thrust 

A  maddened  dog,  whose  mouth  foamed  white  with 
hate; 
And  loud  he  howled  and  gnawed  the  courtyard  dust 
And  ground  his  teeth  upon  the  iron  gate ! 


ON  A    CHILD'S  PORTRAIT  19 


ON  A  CHILD'S  PORTRAIT 

TAEEP  in  the  fluted  hollow  of  its  shells 
Dimly  some  echo  of  the  Ocean  dwells. 

Still  in  September's  fruitage  mellow-cored 
The  filtered  sweets  of  golden  noons  are  stored. 

And  shimmering  on  a  blue-bird's  migrant  wings 
Some  poignant  touch  of  June's  lost  azure  clings. 

Still  in  the  rustling  sheaf  to-day  there  gleams 
The  lingering  gold  of  April's  vanished  dreams. 

Still  in  the  cell  of  one  autumnal  bee 
I  find  lost  Summer  in  epitome. 

And  all  that  better  life  that  I  would  lead, 
Writ  small  in  this,  one  childish  face,  I  read. 


20  AT   THE    TRAGEDY 


AT  THE  TRAGEDY 

p*ROM  old  Verona  down  the  years, 

See,  crept  this  timeless  cry 
Of  one  great  love  grown  soft  with  tears 
And  burdened  with  a  sigh. 

'Twas  all  this  many  a  day  ago, 

And  dim  their  world  is  grown ; 
Since  then  the  drifting  years  like  snow 

'Twixt  Youth  and  us  have  blown. 

And  yet  you  brushed  aside  a  tear, 

And  drew  one  deeper  breath; 
With  pain  like  to  their  sorrow,  Dear, 

As  sleep  is  like  their  death. 

The  music  sobbed  itself  away, 

The  great  dark  curtain  fell; 
And  touched  by  all  their  foolish  play, 

I  saw  your  bosom  swell. 

They,  they  knew  Love  —  though  all  too  late 
And  happier,  lo,  they  sleep, 


AT   THE    TRAGEDY  21 

Since  for  no  Morrow  now  they  wait, 
And  for  no  change  shall  weep. 

But  Life  with  us,  see,  runs  so  thin, 

Our  pale  hearts  take  nor  give, 
And  one  great  love  comes  seldom  in 

The  little  lives  we  live. 

And  through  our  emptier  days  we  weave 

Old  sorrows  long  gone  by, 
And  have  but  paltry  things  to  grieve, 

And  none  for  which  to  die. 

So  with  mock  loves  and  hopes  and  fears 

We  people  our  poor  days; 
And  freshened  at  Art's  fount  of  tears, 

We  go  our  careless  ways. 

We  go  our  careless  ways,  and  yet 

For  some  grim  Venture  yearn; 
Then,  daring  not,  with  vague  regret 

To  opiate  tales  we  turn. 

For  Life  ran  ruddier  then,  it  seems, 

When  men  could  love  and  die, 
Than  here  with  us  who  dream  soft  dreams, 

And  no  stern  Fate  defy. 


22  AT   THE    TRAGEDY 

So  on  you,  watching,  seemed  to  weigh 
Their  old  dead  fears  again; 

And  for  their  grim  and  foolish  play 
You  knew  a  moment's  pain ! 

Yet  'twas  not  you  who  leaned  above 
Their  stage  and  shed  a  tear, 

At  all  their  woe-entangled  love 
Across  each  widening  year ! 

'Twas  that  Love's  ghost  the  ages  gave 

To  yon,  and  you  denied, 
That  dreamed  and  turned  hi  its  deep  grave 

And  asked  why  it  had  died! 


*J* 


I 


THE  FINAL  LESSON 


HAVE   sought  beauty  through  the  dust  of  strife, 
I  have  sought  meaning  for  the  ancient  ache, 
And  music  in  the  grinding  wheels  of  life; 

Long  have  I  sought,  and  little  found  as  yet 
Beyond  this  truth :  that  Love  alone  can  make 

Earth  beautiful,  and  life  without  regret ! 


THE    OLD    GARDEN  23 


THE  OLD  GARDEN 

1 
\717HERE  the  dim  paths  wind  and  creep 
Down  past  dark  and  ghostly  lands 
Lost  this  many  a  year  in  sleep, 
Still  an  ivied  sun-dial  stands. 

Still  about  the  moss-greened  urns 
Fall  the  rose-leaves  ghostly  white; 

Still  the  sunset  flames  and  burns 
In  the  basin's  ghostly  light. 

Still  the  Satyr  by  its  rim 

Holds  the  marble  reed  he  bore, 

And  the  brazen  dolphins  swim 
On  the  fountain's  broken  floor. 

Still  afar  some  evening  bell 

Creeps  and  fails,  and  sounds  and  dies, 
Where  the  ghostly  shadows  dwell 

Here  beneath  the  quiet  skies. 

Here  within  the  lichened  walls 
Sleeps  a  land  forever  old, 


24  THE   OLD    GARDEN 

Where  untroubled  twilight  falls 

On  the  casements  touched  with  gold. 

Here  the  quiet  hours  flow, 

And  the  years  take  languid  breath, 

Where  the  grasses  only  know 

Dusk  and  Silence,  Sleep  and  Death. 

h 

Yet  in  some  remembered  June 

When  the  bird-notes  ceased  to  ring 

Down  the  echoing  afternoon, 
Here  a  woman  used  to  sing. 

Once  where  still  the  roses  climb 
Round  her  casements  framed  with  green, 

Wrapt  in  thought,  O  many  a  time 
From  her  window  she  would  lean, 

And  when  sun  and  birds  were  gone, 
With  her  cheek  still  in  her  hand, 

Gazed  across  this  shadowy  lawn, 
To  a  dim-grown  valley  land, 

Where  a  white  road  twined  and  curled 
Thro'  black  hills  that  barred  the  West, 

And  the  unknown  outer  world 
Filled  her  with  a  strange  unrest. 


THE    OLD    GARDEN  25 

Here  she  wandered,  brooding-eyed, 
Down  each  pathway  fringed  with  box, 

Where  the  hyacinths  still  hide, 
Where  still  flame  the  hollyhocks. 

And  across  the  whispering  grass 

Where  the  ring-doves  murmured  low, 

Oft  her  singing  heart  would  pass 
In  that  lyric  Long  Ago. 

Here  tuberose  and  poppy  red 

Saw  her  pause  with  lingering  feet,  — 

On  the  sun-dial  lean  her  head, 
Crying  out  that  life  was  sweet,  — 

Asking  Time,  if  Spring  by  Spring, 
WTien  she  walked  no  longer  there 

Other  roses  still  could  swing, 
Other  blossoms  scent  the  air?  — 

Weeping  that  she  needs  must  leave 
Warmth  and  beauty,  for  the  grave  — 

Hush,  what  ghostly  Voices  grieve 
Where  the  regal  lilies  wave  ? 


m 

Still  it  sleeps,  this  lonely  place 
Given  o'er  to  dusk  and  dreams; 


26  THE    OLD    GARDEN 

But  her  sad  and  tender  face 

Never  from  the  casement  gleams. 

Still  the  ivied  dial  shows 
In  its  old-time  wash  of  light 

Noonday  open  like  a  rose, 

Though  a  shadow  mark  its  flight. 

Still  the  blossoms  cling  and  bloom 
Deep  about  her  window-square, 

Still  the  sunlight  floods  the  room, 
Still  the  tuberose  scents  the  air; 

Still  it  waits,  her  garden  old, 
Still  the  waning  sunlight  burns 

On  the  casements  tinged  with  gold, 
On  the  green  and  mufiled  urns. 

Still  along  the  tangled  walks, 

Though  she  knows  them  not  again, 

Wait  the  patient  rows  of  phlox, 
Pipes  the  Satyr  in  the  rain. 

Though  she  comes  no  more  to  dream 
Here  where  she  and  Youth  were  one, 

Faint  and  ghostly  voices  seem 
Still  to  frighten  back  the  sun. 


THE    OLD    GARDEN  27 

IV 

Can  it  be  that  in  some  gray 

Twilight  She  shall  swing  the  gate  ?  — 

Where  in  eager  disarray 

Still  her  asters  brood  and  wait? 

Where  her  wiser  poppy  knows, 

And  her  valiant  violets 
Look  and  wonder,  and  the  rose 

Round  her  darkened  window  frets? 

And  these  things  that  temporal  seem, 

Rapture,  Music,  Loveliness, 
Beauty  frail,  and  passing  Gleam, 

Shall  outlive  the  hearts  they  press? 

Since,  we  trust,  each  glory  strange, 
Each  vague  hope  Regret  once  gave, 

Shall  outlive  all  death  and  change, 
As  earth's  love  outlasts  the  grave! 

PHILOSOPHIES 

TI 7E  know  not  what  doth  lie  beyond  the  Door, 

But  in  captivity  behold  us  grown 
Enamored  of  our  cell,  in  scrolling  o'er 

With  signs  and  legends  strange  each  mural  stone! 


28  THE   SEER 


THE  SEER 

A  LONE  on  his  dim  heights  of  song  and  dream 

He  saw  the  Dawn,  and  of  its  coming  told; 
We  on  his  brow  beheld  the  luminous  gleam 
And  hearkened  idly,  for  the  Xight  was  cold. 


Then  clouds  shut  out  the  view,  and  he  was  gone ; 

And  though  the  way  is  long  and  dark  the  Xight, 
And  though  our  dim  eyes  still  await  the  Dawn, 

We  saw  a  face  that  once  beheld  the  Light. 


* 


THE    SONG  -  SPARROW   IN   NOVEMBER 

A  LONE,  forlorn,  blown  down  autumnal  hills, 

Floats  sweetly  solemn,  fond  and  low, 
One  mournful-noted  song  that  fills 
The  twilight,  lonely  grown  with  snow. 

O  shower  of  sound  that  more  than  Music  seems, 
O  song  that  some  vague  sadness  of  farewell 

Leaves  crowned  and  warm  with  tears !  —  must  all  our 
dreams 
Of  deepest  Beauty  thus  with  Sorrow  dwell? 


THE    WOMAN  IN  THE   RAIN  29 


THE   WOMAN   IN   THE   RAIN 

TN  God's  uncleansing  rain 
It  sits  and  waits, 
This  huddled  heap  of  rags  and  ashen  hopes, 
This  timeless  thing  of  mumbling  unconcern, 
That  holds  all  coffined  in  its  agued  bones 
The  embittered  lives  of  men. 

And  quietly 
As  withered  grass,  in  that  soft  summer  rain 
It  waits  beneath  the  dripping  green  of  leaves 
Made  light  with  city  lamps.    And  down  the  square 
Some  pacing  comrade  thing,  of  painted  mouth 
And  sodden  lace,  and  foul  perfumeries, 
With  all  her  opulent  young  bosom  wet 
By  virginal  warm  rain,  says  three  short  words 
To  one  she  stalks,  then  arm  in  arm  they  slink 
Out  through  the  darkness,  to  their  cruel  sleep. 
But  still  beneath  the  odorous  dripping  leaves 
Waits,  sloven-shawled,  and  gaunt,  and  gray  of  lip, 
This  tomb  of  old-time  happiness  that  holds, 
Corroding-limbed,  so  many  ghostly  loves. 
With  burned  out  eyes,  and  breasts  all  fallen  in, 
Sepulchral-like,  she  waits,  soliciting 
With  querulous  sharp  claws  she  knows  not  what. 


30  THE    WOMAN  IN  THE   RAIN 

But  now  men  pass  her  by  with  scarce  a  coin 
*  Contemptuous,  and  still  this  flesh  and  bone, 
That  mocks  what  was  a  woman,  must  be  fed. 
So  in  the  falling  rain  she  shambles  forth 
On  tremulous  old  feet,  and  drifts  along 
Those  mad-houred  gardens  of  delight  that  bloom 
By  dusk  alone,  to  valleys  strewn  with  lamps 
And  houses  gay  with  laughter  and  much  song  — 
And  whines  that  she,  too,  was  a  beauty  once 
And  took  her  pleasures  lightly,  and  could  laugh, 
And  prays  her  midnight  sisters,  while  they  have 
A-plenty  still  to  give  unto  the  poor ! 
And  leers  at  them,  in  wisdom  all  untoothed, 
And  quavers  forth  strange  tunes  they  know  not  of, 
And  steps  some  broken  dance,  and  whimpers  out, 
Through  wheezy  sobs,  how  wild  she  used  to  be ! 

Then  forth  she  creeps  into  the  muffling  night, 
She  who  once  in  her  time  most  tenderly 
Cared  for  her  beauty,  and  was  loved 
By  men  who  knew  not  what  her  laughter  meant 
Xor  by  what  witcheries  she  ruled  their  hearts, 
But  round  her  perfumed  langor  wasted  all 
Their  goodly  hours  and  hated  while  they  loved 
Those  lips  where  lay  such  anguish-hearted  joy. 
This,  this  lean  leathery  throat,  these  draggled  whips 
Of  unkempt  hair,  these  flat  and  wasted  flanks, 
This  withered  body  fallen  into  ruin,  — 


THE    WOMAN  IN   THE   RAIN  3 1 

All  these  have  strangely  moved  the  hearts  of  men 

And  wakened  hot  desires.    And  young  mouths  pressed 

This  flabby  throat  in  houses  thronged  with  light 

And  song  and  lavender  .  .  .  and  died  of  it. 

And  once  a  sea  of  waving  fire  and  snow 

This  bosom  sighed  and  rocked  with  many  heads. 

And  through  her  velvet  veins  once  musically 

The  mad  life  sang,  and  full  of  luring  warmth 

Her  young  lips  smiled,  and  much  she  knew  of  love. 

And  this  same  body,  once  with  wonder  clothed, 

Once  swept  with  passion  and  with  pity  crowned, 

Entrusted  once  with  beauty,  that  the  torch 

Might  pass,  a  gift  not  hers,  from  hand  to  hand,  — 

This  might  have  watched  with  unembittered  eyes 

The  hour  where  promise  and  fulfillment  meet, 

The  dusk  where  autumn  and  contentment  walk. 

This  flaccid  arm,  it  might  have  nursed  and  known 

(As  all  the  law  of  all  its  world  ordained) 

Its  consolation  and  its  mystery, 

Its  ultimate  surrender  and  its  gift, 

Its  solace  for  earth's  uncompanioned  years. 

Yea,  she  who  once  so  much  yet  little  gave, 

She  might  have  watched  with  wide  untroubled  eyes 

Her  youth's  lost  beauty  creeping  through  the  chain, 

The  golden  chain  of  Birth,  to  cheat  the  grave. 

But  she  recked  not  the  perilous  gates  of  time, 

And  some  stern  army,  hour  by  silent  hour, 

To  each  rose-sheltered  battlement  lay  siege. 


32  THE    WOMAN  IN  THE   RAIN 

Like  mailed  legions  through  some  valley  mild 
And  green  with  milky  harvests,  crushed  and  swept 
Each  grim  invasion  through  her  soft-veined  life 
(Low-breathing  winds  moved  not  more  dreamily, 
Deep-bosomed  rivers  far  less  quietly  flowed !) 
Implacably  a  secret  warfare  raged; 
Battalions  of  brave  scarlet,  line  by  line, 
Each  day  were  overcome,  each  night,  renewed, 
And  still  again  repulsed,  and  in  the  end 
A  torn  and  trampled  battleground,  a  waste, 
Her  body  lay,  and  she.  in  time  forgot 
Each  bugled  thrill,  each  call  out-trumpeted 
From  that  high  citadel  where  honor  dwelt. 
And  with  the  years  she  aged,  and  fell  away ! 

And  this,  soft-handed  women,  is  the  end 
Whereto  you  come,  who  nurse  so  carefully 
Your  bodies  delicate,  and  day  and  night 
In  milkless-bosomed  unconcern  of  mind 
Behold  your  beauty  flash  through  many-teared 
Dark  cities  tongued  with  records  like  to  her ! 

O,  felt  such  loins  as  these  the  April  thrill 
Imperative?     Once,  was  it,  in  this  hand 
The  Lord  of  Life  Eternal  thrust  His  torch 
Of  womanhood?    This  mockery  of  blight 
And  bone  outworn,  —  must  flesh  like  unto  hers 
Deriding  stand  the  root  of  earthly  love, 


THE    WOMAN  IN   THE  RAIN  33 

And  still  the  flowering  of  life  remain? 

Is  this  grim  hulk  the  gaoler  of  the  years, 

The  guardian  of  the  Dream?    earth's  far-off  hope, 

And  warm,  wide-bosomed  solace  both  in  one? 

Is  this  a  woman,  —  this  the  wandering  fire 

For  which  all  Ilium  fell,  and  wars  were  made, 

And  music  fashioned,  from  the  birth  of  Time? 

O  Aphrodite,  brooding-eyed,  is  she 

Your  daughter  ?    Juno,  moonbeam-limbed  and  mild, 

What  is  she  now  to  you?  to  Sara  stern, 

To  Magdalene  made  pure  with  many  tears? 

To  hopeless-eyed  Lucretia,  who  could  drain 

Her  broken  heart  of  all  its  tainted  blood? 

To  Mary,  white  of  soul,  Cornelia  chaste, 

Or  Joan  the  Illumed? 

Young  mothers  grown 
Dusk-lidded  with  sad  pleasures  touched  of  fire, 
And  finding  peace  where  she  destruction  found, 
Must  she  and  you  indissolubly  sit 
Thus  bound  with  iron  ties,  until  the  end? 
Must  you,  until  the  end,  still  answer  for 
These  faded  eyes,  so  dull  and  cavernous, 
And  in  your  breast  feel  burn  her  tears  unshed, 
And  in  your  blood  feel  ache  her  woes  unwept, 
And  out  through  her  still  gaze  on  Edens  dim 
And  unattained?     Too-happy  women,  warm 
With  earthly  love,  with  angel  honor  white, 


34  THE    WOMAN  IN  THE  RAIN 

Soft  women  rose-enwrapt  and  lily-robed, 

Behind  each  barrier  dream  these  drunken  hands 

Still  leave  you  naked  to  the  primal  night ! 

Down  to  the  bitter  end  these  bony  claws 

Out  to  your  cradles  reach,  and  strangle  hope, 

And  tear  each  opiate  veil,  and  unavenged 

Fall  grim  between  your  stooping  Christ  and  you ! 

Your  stooping  Christ !    O  Thou  Who  hast  been  called 

The  savior  of  the  world,  must  still  such  things 

Be  borne  of  love?    Must  still  thus  wantonly 

The  golden  chain  of  life  be  link  by  link 

All  broken  for  its  gold  ?    Must  still  the  mad, 

Dark,  immemorial  earthly  rapture  bear 

Its  fruit  of  bitter  ashes?     And  must  love 

Lead  out  into  the  night  thus  hopeless-eyed 

This  thing  that  was  not  Youth,  nor  volant  Death, 

That  is  not  Grief,  nor  joyous  ever  goes, 

That  was  not  Love,  but  one  who  Love  forgot, 

That  was  not  Life,  but  one  whom  Life  denied, 

Glad  now  it  suffers  not,  with  sorrows  in 

Its  empty  laughter  sadder  far  than  tears, 

And  more  than  pain  in  its  abysmal  breast 

Each  short-lived  old  irresolute  delight ! 

For  round  her  throb  and  glow  the  valiant  lamps 
Of  midnight  cities  she  has  never  known; 
Spices  of  Sodom,  and  strange  musks  of  Troy, 
The  fumes  of  Karnac,  and  the  myrrhs  of  Rome, 


THE    WOMAN  IN   THE   RAIN  35 

Cling  destined  round  her  tremulous  old  limbs 

That  once  to  languid  music  throbbed  amid 

The  sultry  nights  of  laughing  Hamadan, 

The  golden  glooms  of  Corinth,  dark  with  sighs 

That  down  regretful  ages  echo  still ! 

For  Thais  and  bold  Phryne  breathe  in  her, 

Aspasia  and  Delilah,  Jezebel 

And  Agrippina  from  her  pallid  eyes 

Look  forth  with  Lydian  madness,  and  she  hears 

The  plashing  fountains  of  grey  Babylon, 

The  breathing  music  of  lost  Nineveh, 

Still  steeped  in  golden  moonlight  and  in  sin ! 

And  as  she  creeps  in  mumbling  unconcern 

Tonight  more  desolately  sterile  than 

The  rain-swept  stones  she  paces,  scarred  and  torn 

With  timeless  centuries  of  huddled  sins, 

A  menace  and  a  taint,  deep  in  her  broods 

Derisively  earth's  million-hearted  ache ! 


* 


SLEEP    AND    DEATH 

'TWO  sisters  they;  one  wanton,  light  of  heart, 

Who  takes  us  to  her  breast  and  laughs  good-bye; 
One  chaste  as  ice,  in  her  white  room  doth  lie, 
But  him  she  loves,  she  never  lets  depart ! 


2,6  IN  THE   OPEN 


IN  THE  OPEN 

T  HAVE  thrown  the  throttle  open  and  am  tearing  down 

His  track; 
I  have  thrown  it  out  to  full-speed  and  no  hand  can  hold 

me  back! 
'Tis  my  arm  controls  the  engine,  though  Another  owns  the 

rail, 
But  for  once  I'm  in  the  open  and  the  yard-lights  pass  and 

pale! 

Green  lights!    Red  lights!    He  has  hung  His  signals 

out! 
Caution  here!   Danger  ho!    And  what's  the  man  about! 
'Tis  true  he  owns  the  Engine,  to  do  as  he  has  done, 
But  how  about  the  Final  Word  —  when  he  ends  the  run  ? 

So  from  siding  on  to  junction-point  now  I  shall  have  my 
day; 

I  have  stopped  to  read  no  orders  but  I  take  the  right-of- 
way. 

On  the  grade  I  thunder  downward,  on  the  curve  I  race 
and  swing, 

For  my  hand  is  on  the  throttle  and  my  heart  shall  have 
its  fling ! 


IN   THE    OPEN  37 

Lights  lost!    Life  lost!    Flag,  O  flag  the  others  back! 
Switch  the  wreck!    Ditch  the  wreck!    Dare  any  block 

His  track  ? 
There  creeps  into  the  Terminal  the  man  who  had  his  day, 
But  I  wonder,  O  my  soul,  just  what  his  God  will  say! 


* 


WHITE  NIGHTS 

HE  sea  sobs  low  on  the  dune 
Where  a  wave  awakens  and  dies, 
And  the  whippoorwill  mourns  to  the  moon. 
And  a  slumberous  night-wind  sighs. 


T 


With  its  passion  the  Dusk  is  still, 
And  the  tide  turns  back  to  the  sea; 

And  the  Night  creeps  over  the  hill, 
And  my  heart,  my  heart  to  thee  I 


38  THE    WORDLESS   TOUCH 


THE   WORDLESS   TOUCH 

HP  HE  sun  on  autumn  hills,  a  twilit  sea, 

The  touch  of  western  gold  on  paling  wings, 
Soft  rain  by  night,  the  flute  of  early  birds, 
And  wind-tost  children  voices,  —  these  to  me 

Wake  thoughts   that   sleep   beyond  the  bourne  of 
words, 
Yet  whisper  low:    "  Whatever  Life  may  be, 
Mocked  as  it  seemed  by  vague  rememberings, 
Thou,  thou  hast  lived  before,  and  known  these  things ! " 

THE  KNIGHT  ERRANT 

U  E  rode  at  dusk  down  woodlands  strange, 
Where  stood  all  bathed  in  fire 
A  great  dark  Tower  whose  shadow  gloomed 
The  Valley  of  Desire. 

Alluring  glowed  that  sun-lit  Tower, 

But  dark  the  way,  and  long; 
And  where  the  walls  seemed  pearl  and  gold 

The  gates  stood  doubly  strong. 


THE   KNIGHT  ERRANT  39 

Life  lay  with  all  its  wrongs  to  right, 

And  all  its  deeds  undone; 
Earth  held  full  many  a  height  to  storm, 

But  he  must  take  this  one. 

We  knew  that  castle  of  delight 

Was  death  to  him  who  knocks, 
Where  roses  screened  the  granite  walls 

And  lilies  hid  the  locks. 

We  told  him  how  ten  thousand  men 

Had  failed  and  fallen  there. 
11  Her  eyes,"  he  sang,  "  are  like  the  stars; 

Like  ripened  wheat  her  hair !  " 

We  laughed  our  laugh,  for  we  ourselves 

Of  old  had  heard  these  things. 
But  hearkens  he  to  any  man, 

The  youth  who  fights  and  sings ! 

He,  watching  there  each  casement  dark, 

By  dawn  and  drear}'  dusk, 
Lay  siege  unto  those  mystic  walls 

Of  lily,  rose,  and  musk; 

And  saw  by  night,  from  turrets  dim, 

Some  dubious  signal  start; 
—  We  knew  each  sign,  we  who  had  sought 

The  fortress  of  her  heart  —  . 


40  THE   KNIGHT  ERRANT 

In  loneliness  and  gloom  and  cold 

His  hungry  youth  went  past. 
"  Lo,  all  ye  tribe  of  Puny  Things, 

How  one  great  love  can  last !  " 

The  pitying  stars  shone  over  him : 
Still  flamed  his  sword  on  high. 

"  Her  mouth,"  he  sang,  u  is  like  the  rose, 
And  white  her  soul,  say  I !  " 

But  lo,  he  beat  the  dark  gates  down, 

And  there  his  fortress  lay 
Four  lonely  walls  wherein  all  life 

Had  fallen  to  decay. 

Each  old  retainer,  night  by  night, 

In  silence  crept  from  her; 
And  one  by  one  her  vassals  died, 

For  all  her  musk  and  myrrh. 

Starved  aspirations,  hopes,  regrets, 

From  her  white  body  stole, 
And  left  her  there  a  woman  dead, 

And  with  an  empty  soul. 

Four  walls,  she  stood,  from  whence  the  last 

Embattled  rose  had  blown; 
"  I  yield,"  she  gasped,  with  goodly  art, 

u  Take  all  that  is  your  own !  " 


THE   KNIGHT  ERRANT  41 

Beside  that  castle  grim  he  wept  — 

We  heard  him,  in  our  sleep  — 
"  Tis  not,  O  God,  the  life  I  gave, 

And  the  tares  that  I  must  reap." 

"  Of  battered  not  of  rusting  swords 

Thy  knights,  I  know,  are  made;  — 
O,  'tis  not,  God,  that  in  this  fight 

You  broke  me  as  a  blade !  " 

"  But  ah,  so  empty  lies  this  thing, 

Why  barred  she  not  each  door 
And  sent  me  singing  through  the  Dusk 

Of  my  grey  Dreams  once  more !  " 

She  laughed  her  laugh,  and  swept  the  blood 

From  off  her  granite  stair, 
For  down  the  wood  a  strange  youth  sang: 

"  Like  golden  sheaves  her  hair !  " 

The  pitying  stars  shone  over  him, 

He  shook  his  sword  on  high. 
"  Her  mouth,"  he  sang  in  turn,  "  is  red, 

But  white  her  soul,  say  I!  " 


42        MORNING   IN   THE   NORTH-WEST 


MORNING   IN   THE   NORTH-WEST 

/^REY  countries  and  grim  empires  pass  away, 
And   all  the  pomp  and  glory  of  citied  towers 
Goes  down  to  dust,  as  Youth  itself  shall  age. 
But  O  the  splendor  of  this  autumn  dawn, 
This  passes  not  away !      This  dew-drenched  Range, 
This  infinite  great  width  of  open  space, 
This  cool  keen  wind  that  blows  like  God's  own  breath 
On  life's  once  drowsy  coal,  and  thrills  the  blood, 
This  brooding  sea  of  sun-washed  solitude, 
This  virginal  vast  dome  of  opal  air  — 
These,  these  endure,  and  greater  are  than  grief ! 
Still  there  is  strength :   and  life,  Oh,  life  is  good ! 
Still  the  horizon  lures,  the  morrow  calls, 
Still  hearts  adventurous  seek  outward  trails, 
Still  life  holds  up  its  tattered  hope ! 

For  here 
Is  goodly  air,  and  God's  own  greenness  spread ! 
Here  youth  audacious  fronts  the  coming  day 
And  age  on  life  ne'er  mountainously  lies ! 
Here  are  no  huddled  cities  old  in  sin, 
Where  coil  in  tangled  langors  all  the  pale 
Envenomed  mirths  that  poisoned  men  of  old, 


MORNING  IN  THE  NORTH-WEST        43 

Where  peering  out  with  ever-narrowing  eyes 
Reptilious  Ease  unwinds  its  golden  scales 
And  slimes  with  ugliness  the  thing  it  eats ! 
Here  life  takes  on  a  glory  and  a  strength 
Of  things  still  primal,  and  goes  plunging  on ! 
And  what  care  I  of  time-encrusted  tombs, 
What  care  I  here  for  all  the  ceaseless  drip 
Of  tears  in  countries  old  in  tragedy? 
What  care  I  here  for  all  Earth's  creeds  outworn, 
The  dreams  outlived,  the  hopes  to  ashes  turned, 
In  that  old  East  so  dark  -with  rain  and  doubt? 
Here  life  swings  glad  and  free  and  rude,  and  I 
Shall  drink  it  to  the  full,  and  go  content ! 


BESIDE   THE   MARTYRS'    MEMORIAL 

(Oxford) 

HP  HEIR  sterner  God  we  have  long  since  forgot; 
We  creed  to  shifting  creed  our  wonder  give, 
Yet  from  the  ashes  of  dead  faiths  that  lie 
On  Age  we  whisper:   Theirs  the  happier  lot, 

Who  found  this  narrower  faith,   by   which   to   live, 
Who  knew  this  darker  God,  for  whom  to  die ! 


44  DREAMS 


DREAMS 

'"THROUGH  Sleep's  blue  dome  wheel  fondly  to  and 
fro 
Ten  thousand  Dreams,  their  wings  all  tinged  with  gold. 
Home,  home  to  us  they  come  across  the  West, 
A  golden  flurry  of  glad  wings  —  but  lo, 

In  the  dark  pines  of  Mem'ry  where  they  nest 
One  mocking  feather  is  the  most  we  hold ! 


* 


THE    DAUGHTER    OF    DEMETER 

/^.ODDESS  and  Mother,  let  me  smooth  your  brow 

And  cling  about  you  for  a  little  time 
With  these  pale  hands,  for  see,  still  at  the  glow 
Of  all  this  white-houred  noon  and  alien  sun 
I  tremble  like  a  new-born  nightingale 
Blown  from  its  nest  into  bewildering  rain ! 
How  shall  I  tell  thee,  Mother,  of  those  days 
My  aching  eyes  saw  not  this  azure  sea 
Of  air,  unknown  in  my  grey  underworld 
And  only  whispered  of  by  wretched  Shades, 
That  pace  the  Dusk  and  will  not  be  at  peace ! 


THE   DAUGHTER    OF  DE METER  45 

Or  how  I  often  asked:    "  Canst  thou,  dark  heart, 

Re-dream  the  music  of  the  rain?    Canst  thou 

Recall  the  gold  above  the  black-crowned  pines? 

Canst  thou,  my  heart,  remember  Home,  so  far 

And  long  forlorn,  still  think  of  Sicily? 

Then  didst  thou,  weeping,  call  Persephone 

The  Many-Songed,  and  where  thy  lonely  voice 

Once  fell  all  greenness  faded  and  the  song 

Of  birds  all  died,  and  down  from  brazen  heights 

A  blood-red  sun  long  noon  by  sullen  noon 

On  ashen  days  and  desolation  shone; 

And  cattle  lowed  about  the  withered  springs, 

And  Earth  gaped  wide,  and  arid  Evening  moaned 

Along  her  empty  rivers  for  the  rain ! 

The  milkless  ewe  saw  not  its  fallen  lamb, 

The  mummied  seeds  remembered  not  the  Spring, 

The  broken  hives  stood  bleaching  in  the  sun, 

The  unused  wine-vats  cracked,  and  overturned 

The  oil-jars  lay,  and  from  bald  hill  to  hill 

The  white  smoke  drifted,  and  the  world  seemed  dead ! 

Yet  thou  in  anger  didst  withhold  the  green, 

And  grim  of  breast  forbade  the  bursting  sap ; 

And  dared  the  darkest  sky-line  of  lone  Deeps 

For  thy  lost  daughter,  and  could  find  her  not ! 

Then  came  the  Arethusan  whisper,  and  release; 
The  refreshing  rains  washed  down  and  gushed 
And  sluiced  the  juicy  grasses  once  again, 


46  THE  DAUGHTER    OF  DE METER 

The  wet  leaves  dripped  with  laughter,  bough  by  bough 
The  soft  invasion  of  the  vernal  green 
Made  glad  the  world  and  sang  through  every  hill, 
And  bird  by  bird  the  Summer  was  reborn,  — 
And  drooping  in  thine  arms  I  wakened  here ! 

Yet  all  those  twilight  days  I  was  content, 

Though  silent  as  a  frozen  river  crept 

The  hours  entombed,  though  far  I  was  from  thee, 

And  from  the  Nysian  fields  of  open  sun, 

The  sound  of  waters,  and  the  throats  of  song. 

Yet  when  with  happier  lips  I  tell  thee  all 

Thou  must,  worn  Mother,  leave  me  here  alone 

Where  softly  as  the  snow  each  white  hour  falls 

About  my  musing  eyes,  and  life  seems  strange, 

And  strange  the  muffled  piping  of  the  birds, 

And  strange  the  drowsy  music  of  the  streams,  — 

The  whispering  pavillions  of  the  pines; 

And  more  than  strange  the  immersing  wash  of  air 

That  breathes  and  sways  and  breaks  through  all  my  being, 

And  lulls  away,  like  seas  intangible, 

Regrets,  and  tears,  and  days  of  heavy  gloom. 

O  Mother,  all  these  things  are  told  not  of 

Where  I  have  been,  and  on  these  eyes  estranged 

Earth's  poignant  sweetness  falls  so  mystical 

Its  beauty  turns  a  thing  of  bitter  tears ; 

And  even  in  my  gladness  I  must  grieve 


THE  DAUGHTER    OF  DE METER  47 

For  this  dark  change,  where  Death  has  died  to  me,  — 

For  my  lost  Gloom,  where  life  was  Life  to  me  ! 

Long  years  from  now  shall  ages  yet  unborn 

Watch  the  returning  Spring  and  strangely  yearn ! 

Others  shall  thrill  with  joy  like  unto  mine ! 

Vague  things  shall  move  them  and  strange  voices  steal 

Through  sad,  bud-scented  April  eves  to  them  ! 

Round  them  shall  fall  a  glory  not  of  Earth, 

As  now  o'er  these  Sicilian  meadows  fail 

Dim  memories  that  come  I  know  not  whence ! 

In  lands  I  know  not  of  some  sorrowing  girl 

Shall  faintly  breathe  "lam  Persephone 

On  such  a  day  1  "  and  through  the  world  shall  run 

The  immemorial  rapture  and  the  pang; 

And  pale-eyed  ghosts  shall  creep  out  to  the  light 

And  drink  the  sun,  like  wine,  and  live  once  more. 

The  dower  of  my  delight  shall  make  them  glad; 

The  tears  of  my  regret  shall  weigh  them  down, 

And  men  with  wondering  eyes  shall  watch  the  Spring 

Return,  and  weep,  indeed,  these  selfsame  tears, 

And  laugh  with  my  good  laughter,  knowing  not 

Whence  came  their  passing  bliss  so  torn  with  pain ! 

For  good  is  Enna,  and  the  wide  glad  Earth, 
And  good  the  comfortable  green  of  grass 
And  Xysian  meadows  still  so  milky  pale ! 
Good  seems  the  dark  steer  in  the  noonday  sun, 
The  nibbling  herd  that  sounds  unto  my  ears 


48  THE   DAUGHTER    OF  DE METER 

So  like  a  quiet  sea  on  pebbly  shores, 

The  ploughman's  keel  that  turns  black  waves  of  loam, 

The  laughing  girls,  the  fluting  shepherd  boys; 

And  beautiful  the  song  of  many  birds ! 

Good  seem  these  golden  bees  whose  busy  wings 

With  wavering  music  drone  and  die  away,  — 

The  orchard  odors,  and  the  seas  of  bloom; 

And  good  the  valleys  where  the  green  leaves  breathe, 

The  hills  where  all  the  patient  pines  look  down; 

Good  seem  the  lowland  poplars  bathed  in  light, 

That  pillar  from  the  plain  this  tent  of  blue,  — 

The  quiet  homes  amid  the  cooling  fields, 

The  flashing  rivers,  and  the  woods  remote,  — 

The  little  high  white  town  among  the  hills ! 

All,  all  are  good  to  look  on,  and  most  dear 

To  my  remembering  eyes.    Each  crocus,  too, 

And  gold  narcissus,  gleams  memorial, 

Untouched  of  sorrow  for  that  troubled  day 

Impetuous  wheel  and  hoof  threshed  thro'  the  wheat 

And  'mid  these  opiate  blooms  the  Four-Horsed  One 

Swept  down  on  me,  half-lost  in  pensive  dreams, 

And  like  a  poppy  in  some  panting  noon, 

All  drooping,  bore  me  to  the  gates  of  Hell,  — 

When  on  my  fragile  girlhood  closed  his  arms 

As  on  some  seed  forlorn  Earth's  darkest  loam ! 

Yet  think  not,  Mother,  this  fierce  Son  of  Night 

Brought  only  sorrow  with  him,  for  behold, 

In  learning  to  forbear  I  learned  to  love; 


THE   DAUGHTER    OF  DEMETER  49 

And  battling  pale  on  his  impassioned  breast 
I  felt  run  through  my  veins  some  golden  pang 
Of  dear  defeat,  some  subjugation  dim, 
Presaging  how  this  life  must  bruised  lie 
Before  its  wine  is  ripe,  how  ere  its  fruit 
Is  fashioned  it  must  be  deflowered, 
How  ere  this  breast  of  mine  could  utterly 
Be  glad  or  beautiful  it  must  be  crushed ! 
Thus  are  we  fashioned,  Mother,  though  we  live 
Immortal,  or  the  sons  of  men;   and  so 
Each  day  on  my  disdain  some  tendril  new 
Bound  me  the  closer  to  him,  loving  not, 
Some  wayward  bar  of  pity  caged  me  down, 
And  day  by  languid  day  amid  Death's  gloom 
I  grew  to  lean  upon  him,  and  in  time 
I  watched  his  coming  and  his  absence  wept. 
I  walked  companion  to  his  pallid  shades, 
And  mild  and  pale  as  yonder  midday  moon 
I  dwelt  with  him,  a  ghost  amid  his  ghosts. 
If  this  was  love,  I  loved  him  more  than  life, 
And  now  he  means  to  me  what  flame  and  war 
And  shrill  of  bugles  over  serried  steel 
.And  the  tumultuous  conflagration  of  great  towers 
And  ruined  citadels  must  mean  to  eyes 
Of  martial  men,  bewildering  as  wine, 
And  sweeping  on  to  any  maddened  end ! 
I  came  to  glory  in  him,  felt  small  hands 
Clutch  at  my  breast  when  he  was  standing  near, 


50  THE   DAUGHTER    OF  DE METER 

And  knew  his  cruel  might,  yet  thrilled  to  it, 

And  in  his  very  strength  took  vague  delight. 

Stern  were  his  paths  and  troubled,  yet  he  stooped 

Still  patient-eyed  above  my  weaknesses 

Until  I  saw,  in  wonder,  from  the  weeds 

Of  lust  original  the  rose  of  love, 

And  link  by  link  found  all  my  life  enchained ! 

Only  at  times  the  music  of  the  Sea 

Sang  in  my  ears  its  old  insistent  note,  — 

Only  at  times  I  heard  the  wash  and  rush 

Of  waves  on  open  shores  and  windy  cliffs,  — 

Only  at  times  I  seemed  to  see  great  wings 

Scaling  some  crystal  stairway  to  the  Sun, 

And  languid  eagles  shouldering  languid  clouds ! 

Singing  on  summer  mornings  too  I  heard; 

I  caught  the  sound  that  sweet  green  waters  make, 

The  music  —  Oh,  so  delicate  !  —  of  leaves 

And  rustling  grasses,  and  the  stir  of  wings 

About  dim  gardens.     Where  shy  nightingales 

Shook  their  old  sorrow  over  Ida's  gloom 

I  into  immortality  was  touched 

Once  more  by  song  and  moonlight  far  away ! 

Beside  dim  fires  I  mused  and  made  my  dreams 

And  through  soft  tears  rebuilt  some  airier  life 

Untouched  of  time  and  change,  and  so  forgot 

My  sorrow;  and  the  first  of  all  the  gods, 

With  Memory  and  Aspiration  walked ! 


THE   DAUGHTER    OF  DE METER  5 1 

For,  Mother,  see,  this  dubious  death  in  life 

Has  clothed  with  joy  and  wonder  all  the  world ! 

My  ways,  of  old,  were  but  phantasmal  stream 

And  shadowy  flower  and  song  that  was  not  song; 

And  wrapt  in  white  eternities  I  walked 

A  daughter  of  the  gods,  who  knew  not  Death ! 

I  was  a  thing  of  coldness  and  disdain, 

Half  reading  all  that  lay  so  sealed  in  dream, 

Half  losing  all  that  lay  so  deep  in  life ! 

Enthroned  in  astral  taciturnities, 

And  looking  tranquil-eyed  on  beauties  old, 

I  faced  one  dull  Forever,  strange  to  Hope, 

And  strange  to  Sorrow,  strange  to  Tears,  Regrets! 

Joy  was  not  joy,  and  living  was  not  life ! 

So  unreluctantly  the  long  years  went, 

Though  I  had  all  that  we,  the  gods,  have  asked, 

Drunk  with  life's  wine,  I  could  not  sing  the  grape, 

And  knew  not  once,  till  Ades  touched  my  hand 

And  made  me  wise,  how  good  the  world  could  be ! 

Now,  now  I  know  the  solace  and  the  thrill 

Of  passing  Autumns  and  awakening  Springs; 

I  know  and  love  the  Darkness,  many-voiced, 

Since  Night  it  was  that  taught  me  to  be  strong, 

Since  doubt  it  was  that  schooled  me  to  be  wise ! 

The  meaning  of  all  music  now  I  know,  — 

The  song  autumnal  sky  and  twilit  seas 

Would  sing  so  well,  if  once  they  found  the  words  — 


52  THE   DAUGHTER    OF  DE METER 

The  sorrow  of  dear  shores  grown  low  and  dim 
To  darkling  eyes  that  may  not  look  again, 
The  beauty  of  the  rose  enriched  by  death, 
The  happy  lark  that  hymns  amid  the  yew, 
The  mortal  love  grown  glorious  by  its  grave ! 
For  worlds  and  faces  now  I  see  beyond 
The  sad-aisled  avenues  of  evening  stars; 
The  Future  like  an  opal  dawn  unfurls 
To  me,  and  all  earth's  dreaming  Long  Ago 
Lies  wide  and  luring  as  the  open  Deep. 

And  so,  still  half  in  gloom  and  half  in  sun 
Shall  men  and  women  dwell  as  I  have  dwelt. 
Half  happy  and  half  sad  their  days  shall  fall, 
And  grief  shall  learn  beside  the  open  grave 
How  beauteous  life  can  be,  how  deep  is  Love ! 
As  snow  makes  soft  grim  Etna's  green,  so  tears 
Shall  make  our  laughter  sweet;  and  lovers  strange 
To  thee  and  me,  grey  Mother,  many  years 
From  now  shall  feel  this  thing  and  dimly  know 
The  bitter  sweetness  of  this  hour  to  me, 
Whom  Life  has  given  unto  Death,  and  Death 
Back  unto  Life  —  both  ghost  and  goddess,  lo, 
Who  faced  these  mortal  tears  to  fathom  Love! 


ON   THE    OPEN   TRAIL  ^ 


ON   THE    OPEN   TRAIL 

HP  HIS  narrow  world  with  a  low-hung  sky 

Like  a  little  tent  around  it 
Too  cramped  I  find  for  a  home  of  mine, 
Too  puny  have  I  found  it ! 

Since  I  was  ever  a  vagabond, 

A  vagrant-foot  and  rover, 
O  give  me  the  width  of  the  skies  to  roam 

When  my  earthly  days  are  over ! 

—  Once  more  where  stars  for  the  milestones  stand 
And  the  unresting  worlds  walk  my  way,  — 

Out,  out  where  a  man  has  elbow  room 
To  travel  an  open  highway ! 

And  when  the  journey  is  done  God  grant 

That  one  lone  Inn  I  find  me, 
Where  I  may  enter  and  greet  —  but  Her, 

And  close  the  door  behind  me ! 


54 


NIGHT   TRAVEL 


NIGHT    TRAVEL 

r\  NEAR  lights,  and  far  lights, 

And  every  light  a  home ! 
And  how  they  gladden,  sadden  us 
Who  late  and  early  roam ! 

But  sad  lights  and  glad  lights, 
By  flash  and  gleam  we  speed 

Across  the  darkness  to  a  light 
We  love,  and  know,  and  need ! 


4* 


UNDER    THE    STARS 

CO  high  above,  Sad  Heart,  our  heavens  bend, 

These  longing  hands  touch  not  their  lowliest  star! 
Yet  down  from  those  vast  unimpassioned  skies 

May  yearn,  from  where  we  dream  all  sorrows  end, 
May  yearn  tonight  some  heart  through  saddened  eyes 
Unto  this  world,  where  we  and  Sorrow  are! 


GIFTS  55 


GIFTS 


T  THANK  Thee,  God,  for  good  and  bad, 

For  all  the  tangled  skein 
Of  blows  that  made  my  manhood  glad, 
And  joys  that  were  a  pain ! 

Defeat  I  thank  Thee  for,  and  strife, 

For  all  Thou  didst  deny, 
Since  he  who  lives  the  lightest  life, 

The  darkest  death  must  die. 

And  he  who  doth  a  star  pursue 
Both  home  and  fire  must  leave, 

As  he  who  guards  a  life  or  two 
A  death  or  two  must  grieve. 

And  he  who  wins  shall  lose  again, 

And  having  lost,  shall  win, 
Since  they  are  strong  who  saw  great  pain, 

And  wise,  who  once  knew  sin ! 


56 


TWO    CAPTIVES 


TWO    CAPTIVES 


"VTOURN  not  for  him:   he  doth  no  captive  dwell 

Who  beats  and  gnaws  the  bars  that  bind  him  so, 
Who,  thrice  immured,  still  hates  his  cage  too  well. 

But  pity  him  who  no  such  pangs  can  know, 

WTho,  long-enchained,   and  grown  to  love  his  cell, 
Should  Freedom  lean  to  him,  stands  loath  to  go ! 

WHEN    CLOSING    SWINBURNE 

HpHE  Greeks  of  old  who  sang  to  flute  and  lyre 

Half  schooled  coy  Melody  to  walk  with  Speech; 
Here  madly,  lo,  she  yields  to  his  desire, 

And  lovers  grown,  they  mingle  each  with  each ! 

THE    SHADOWING    GODS 

"  T   SCORN  your  empty  creeds,  and  bend  my  knee 

To  none  of  all  the  gods  adored  of  men,  — 
I  worship  nothing,  that  I  may  be  free !  " 

"  Mayhap,"  said  one,  "  you  kneel  to  Freedom  then ! 


KEATS 


57 


KEATS 

A  LL  over-thumbed,  dog-eared,  and  stained  with  grass, 

All  bleached  with  sun  and  time,  and  eloquent 
Of  afternoons  in  golden-houred  Romance, 
You  turn  them  o'er,  these  comrade  books  of  mine, 
And  idly  ask  me  what  I  think  of  Keats. 

But  let  me  likewise  question  you  round  whom 
The  clangor  of  the  Market  sweeps  and  clings: 
In  Summer  toward  the  murmurous  close  of  June 
Have  you  e'er  walked  some  dusty  meadow  path 
That  faced  the  sun  and  quivered  in  the  heat, 
And  as  you  brushed  through  grass  and  daisy-drift, 
Found  glowing  on  some  sun-burnt  little  knoll 
One  deep,  red,  over-ripe  wild  strawberry  ? — 
The  sweetest  fruit  beneath  Canadian  skies 
And  in  that  sun-bleached  field  the  only  touch 
Of  lustrous  color  to  redeem  the  Spring  — 
The  flame-red  passion  of  life's  opulence 
Grown  over-sweet  and  soon  ordained  to  death ! 

And  have  you  ever  caught  up  in  your  hand 
That  swollen  globe  of  soft  deliciousness  ? 
You  notice  first  the  color,  richly  red; 


,-3  KEATS 

And  then  the  odor,  strangely  sweet  and  sharp, 
And  last  of  all,  you  crush  its  ruddy  core 
Against  your  lips,  till  color,  taste,  and  scent 
Might  make  your  stained  mouth  stop  the  murmur: 

"  This 
The  very  heart  of  Summer  that  I  crush !  "  — 
So  poignant  through  its  lusciousness  it  seems ! 
Then  what's  the  need,  Old  Friend,  of  foolish  words: 
I've  shown  you  now  just  what  I  think  of  Keats. 


♦ 


THE    SHADOW 

^\NE  soul  there  is  that  knows  me  as  I  am, 

Reads  each  pretence,    sees    through    each    futile 
sham; 

Goads  me  with  scorning  lip,  with  laughter  dry> 

Yea,  dogs  me  step  by  step:   my  better  II 


UNANOINTED   ALTARS  ^g 


UXAXOIXTED    ALTARS 

"  T  ET  it  be,"  said  he,  "  that  the  hounds  shall  win, 
J-^  Let  it  come  that  I  bow  to  the  curs, 
And  stand  a  jool  in  the  eyes  of  the  world. 
But,  O  never  a  jool  in  hers!  " 

It  was  not  for  the  sake  of  the  things  they  sought, 
Xor  the  foolish  crowns  they  cried  for. 

Xor  for  any  of  all  the  ancient  gods 
Their  fathers  had  fought  and  died  for ! 

It  was  not,  he  knew,  for  the  name  of  the  land, 

Xor  the  pride  of  the  loins  that  bore  him; 
Not,  not  for  these  did  he  die  his  deaths, 

And  crush  to  the  goals  before  him ! 

"  Let  it  be  that  the  ancient  jest  holds  good, 

Let  it  come  that  I  bow  to  the  curs, 
And  stand  a  jool  in  the  eyes  of  the  world, 

But,  O  never  a  jool  in  hers!  " 

So  the  years  that  he  wrought  were  empty  years, 
And  the  laurels  he  won,  their  laughter; 


60  UNANOINTED   ALTARS 

But  other  than  his  were  the  mouths  that  pressed 
This  mouth  that  he  hungeied  after! 

Yea,  the  years  that  he  wrought  seemed  wasted  years, 
And  his  goodly  strength  was  broken, 

And  his  shrivelled  heart  lay  dry  as  dust,  — 
But  the  word  was  left  unspoken  I 

Yet  he  stood,  at  the  end,  in  their  wondering  eyes, 

(For  all  that  he  held  them  curs) 
Far  more  of  a  god  than  a  fool,  indeed,  — 

But  a  fool  to  the  end  in  Hers! 


* 


ON   A   CHOPIN   NOCTURNE 

TTE  desolate  and  saddened  sought  the  gleam 

Of  that  white  summit  where  lone  Beauty  dwelt, 
And  mid  its  calm  some  ghostly  marble  found,  — 
Yea,  in  its  tranquil  snows  his  broken  dream 
Of  Beauty  moulded  .  .  .  and  we  watch  it  melt, 
As  Music,  into  April  showers  of  sound ! 


THE    WANDERERS  6l 


THE    WANDERERS 

T\  RIFTING  from  Deep  to  dark-horizoned  Deep, 

Sea-worn  we  fare  through  unknown  islands  lone 
To  unimagined  mainlands  lonelier  still. 
Out  past  gray  headlands,  with  o'er- wistful  eyes 
We  gaze  where  pathless  waters  pale  and  gloom 
And  tumble  restlessly  all  touched  with  gold 
Deep  through  the  darkening  West,  —  and  talk  of  Home. 
Then  like  the  rustling  of  soft  leaves  to  us, 
Then  like  the  whispering  of  evening  waves, 
Across  the  twilight  silences  there  come, 
Borne  in  upon  the  sea-wind's  languid  wings, 
Soft  hidden  voices  and  strange  harmonies, 
Far  sounds  from  hills  and  shores  unknown  to  us, 
Low  strains  that  creep  and  fail  like  solemn  bells 
Across  a  windy  pla inland,  cries  that  lure 
Us  onward  and  still  onward  toward  the  End, 
Through  foam  and  spindrift  to  the  uttermost 
Dark  undiscovered  Country  of  the  Dream, 
Strange  intuitions  telling  us  there  lies 
Some  wider  world  about  us  than  we  dream, 
And  wayward  memories  of  how  we  fared 
From  coasts  too  far  away  for  feeble  thought ! 
Thev  come  as  broken  voices  blown  to  us 


62  THE    WANDERERS 

From  out  a  land  of  twilight  too  remote 
And  muffled  in  deep  mists  to  be  discerned, 
One  wind-blown  echo  comes,  one  teasing  strain, 
And  while  we  listen  with  bewildered  ears, 
The  music  mocking  dies,  the  glory  fades, 
The  fragile  tone  dissolves,  —  and  leaves  us  there 
Amid  the  gathering  silence  and  the  gloom 
With  some  new  anguish  eating  at  our  hearts, 
And  some  dark  mem'ry  washing  restlessly 
Upon  the  granite  bastions  of  Regret. 
What  it  would  whisper  now  we  cannot  tell, 
And  so,  with  sullen  oar  yet  watching  eyes, 
We  still  fare  on  past  thresholds  still  unknown, 
And  question  whence  we  come  and  whither  go; 
And  ere  the  dawn  is  gray  again  we  quench 
Doubt's  sinking  fires  and  drive  the  splintered  keel 
Deep  through  the  black  waves  and  go  plunging  out, 
Out  past  the  headlands  of  the  open  sea, 
With  straining  sails  and  wills  more  obdurate, 
On  through  the  dark  horizon  of  unrest, 
Still  onward,  ever  onward,  to  the  End ! 


AT    THE    COMEDY  63 


AT   THE    COMEDY 

T    AST  night,  in  snowy  gown  and  glove, 

I  saw  you  watch  the  play 
Where  each  mock  hero  won  his  love 
The  old  unlifelike  way. 

(And  O  were  life  their  little  scene 

Where  love  so  smoothly  ran, 
How  different,  Dear,  this  world  had  been 

Since  this  old  world  began!) 

For  you,  who  saw  them  gaily  win 

Both  hand  and  heart  away, 
Knew  well  where  dwelt  the  mockery  in 

That  foolish  little  play. 

("  //  love  were  all  —  if  love  were  all," 

The  viols  sobbed  and  cried, 
"  Then  love  were  best  whatever  befall!  " 

Low,  low  the  flutes  replied.) 

And  you,  last  night,  did  you  forget, 
So  far  from  me,  so  near?  — 


64  AT   THE   COMEDY 

For  watching  there  your  eyes  were  wet 
With  just  an  idle  tear ! 

(And  down  the  great  dark  curtain  jell 

Upon  their  foolish  play, 
But  you  and  I  knew  —  Oh,  too  well!  — 

Life  went  another  way!) 


* 


AN   EPITAPH 

Q  WOMAN -SOUL,    all    flower,    and    flame,    and 
dew,  — 
Through  your  white  life  I  groped  once  up  to  God 
In  happier  days :   you  lie  beneath  His  sod, 

And  now  through  Him  alone  I  grope  to  you! 


THE  MAN   WHO    KILLED  65 


THE   MAN   WHO    KILLED 


The  speaker  is  Cain,  crouched  in  a  grove  of  matted  shadow 
and  sunlight,  beside  the  body  of  his  brother  Abel.  This  body 
lies  close  by  an  overturned  jar  of  oil,  at  the  foot  of  an  altar- 
cairn  of  rough  and  smoke-stained  stones.  Near  it,  grains  and 
fruits,  brought  for  sacrificial  offering,  wither  in  the  hot  noonday 

sun Cain,  in  an  agony  of  apprehension  that 

slowly  grows  to  terror,  at  the  sight  of  the  first  of  the  race  of  man 
to  be  overtaken  by  Death,  peers  down  at  the  body,  while  at 
times  his  mother,  Eve,  is  heard  singing  in  the  distance.     .     .     . 

Y^HAT  pulsing  warmth  is  this  that  oozes   through 
Your  matted  hair? 

What  makes  so  horrible 
These  hands  of  mine,  that  fawn  upon  the  throb 
And  gush  of  rivers  which  they  cannot  stanch? 
WTiat  voice  was  that  ?  .  .  . 

.  .  .  Oh,  whence  came  all  this  blood? 
What  wild  bird  screams  and  calls  so  loud  ?  .  .  .  O  God, 
What  is  this  wonder  creeping  down  his  face, 
His  piteous  face  so  white  and  stained?    What  wind 
Is  this  that  sighs  so  low  across  the  world? 

Eve  is  heard  singing  out  of  the  remote  distance: 


66  THE  MAN   WHO    KILLED 

The  silence  went  out  of  the  day, 
The  sorrow  passed  out  of  the  west, 

For  bone  of  my  bone  he  lay 

Warm  on  my  wondering  breast  I 

Each  valley  where  Loneliness  crept 
Grew  vocal  and  golden  and  warm, 

For  son  of  my  loins  he  slept 
Close  in  my  wondering  arm! 

Speak.  .  .  .  Speak!  ...  ere  on  this  altar-rock  I  beat 
My  maddened  head,  or  tear  this  unknown  ache 
Out  of  my  loins,  and  in  relieving  gloom 
Lie  at  your  side ! 

But  no  .  .  .  no,  not  as  you, 
All  huddled  in  such  hideous  unconcern, 
Thus  ugly,  stark,  with  brutish  mouth  agape 
In  foul  black-blooded  slag !    No,  not 
With  sightless  eyes  where  glazing  terrors  seem 
To  crawl,  with  each  half-mucid  limb  inert, 
Where,  for  one  breath  that  ended  in  a  scream, 
You  writhed  and  twisted  with  some  hellish  thing, 
You  fought  and  struggled  with  some  Fear  unknown, 
Then  like  a  burnt-out  faggot  drooped  away, 
And  moved  not  in  the  dust ! 

Speak  out,  swart  throat, 
Speak  out  again  and  boast  of  this  grim  strength 
That  woke  and  bore  me  down !    But  cry  aloud 


THE   MAX    WHO    KILLED  67 

That  all  is  well  with  you,  that  in  your  time 

You  will  remember,  will  be  hot  to  strike 

And  hold  your  own !  .  .  .  O,  Abel,  speak ! 

One  old-time  word  of  hate  is  all  I  ask. 

What  is  the  Thing  that  steals  thus  over  you? 

Can  it  indeed  be  Joy?    Or  is  it  Pain? 

'What  wreath  of  heavy  Wonder  has  my  hand 

Crushed  on  your  startled  brow?    What  mystery 

Is  this  that  I  have  clothed  your  body  in? 

Past  what  unseen  Abyss  have  you  been  thrust? 

What  ache  is  this,  unknown  to  all  the  world, 

Eats  through  my  dizzy  veins  ?     Why  should  it  seem 

That  you  have  gone  beyond  some  lonely  Door 

That  shuts  me  out,  and  leaves  me  desolate?  .  .  . 

Earth's  green  things  I  have  seen  return  to  earth, 

Days  I  have  seen  thus  fade  away  and  droop, 

Tides  I  have  seen  go  out,  and  Summer  pass 

Beyond  earth's  iron  hills  .  .  .  yet  all  again 

Came  back  —  there  lies  the  wonder  !  —  came    with   joy 

To  us  again ! 

Eve  in  the  distance  is  again  heard  singing: 

The  silence  went  out  of  the  day, 
The  sorrow  passed  out  of  the  izest, 

For  bone  of  my  bone  he  lay 

Warm  on  my  nvndering  breast! 


68  THE  MAN   WHO   KILLED 

The  noon  grows  old;   the  tide 
Turns  back,  and  loud  his  lost  ewes  bleat.  .  .  .  But  he 
Wakes  not,  —  he  who,  one  little  hour  ago, 
Was  livid  with  a  rage  that  crushed  me  down ! 
I  feared  and  hated  then  his  panting  might, 
His  man's  good  sinewy  strength.     But  Oh,  I  dread 
Him  more,  thus  meek  of  hand  and  humble-eyed, 
Here  where  he  sprawls  dishevelled  in  the  sun, 
So  ominous !    And  his  poor  gaping  mouth 
Rebuked  me  not,  though  with  my  heel  I  spurned 
His  parted  lips,  that  panted,  and  were  still ! 

Far  away  Eve  sings  once  more: 

The  birds  at  the  Dawn  may  awake, 
The  birds  in  the  Dusk  may  depart, 

For  the  song  on  the  paths  that  I  take 
Is  sung  by  my  sheltering  heart! 

What  new  word  on  the  lip  of  waiting  Time 

Is  this  earth  hears?     How  in  one  little  sound 

Like  that  he  uttered  could  be  sloughed  away 

The  might  that  made  him  wonderful  and  quick ! 

What  god-like  thing  pulsed  out  through  this  small  wound 

No  wider  than  a  leaf  ?    What  mystery 

Has  crowded  through  a  gate  so  small  as  this? 

Are  you  the  thing  that  fought  and  flung  me  back? 

Are  you  the  voice  I  heard  on  morning  hills? 


THE   MAX    WHO    KILLED  69 

Are  you  the  warmth  I  felt  on  nights  of  rain, 
The  valiant  motion  and  the  flame-like  speed 
That     swept    like    wind    and    fire    through    gloomy 

woods?  .  .  . 
And  this  limp  hand  once  dared  sheer  crag  and  sea, 
And  cunningly  has  builded  in  its  time, 
And  yet  can  shade  not  from  the  cruel  sun 
These  staring  eyes,  that  watch  I  know  not  what ! 
If  you  are  wiser  now  than  I  am  wise, 
If  out  through  dark  and  distant  worlds  you  look, 
What  are  these  wordless  horrors,  what  this  woe 
Abysmal,  what  this  black  engulfing  sea, 
Mirrored  in  eyes  that  answer  not  to  mine? 
Speak  to  me  once,  Stark  Terror,  for  I  fear 
The  noise  of  leaves  and  grasses  when  I  watch 
You  lying  thus !    Until  you  wake,  I  dare 
Not  look  on  God's  wide  hills  of  awful  light ! 
I  fear,  from  now,  the  accusing-fingered  Hours; 
I  fear  the  voices  fugitive  and  thin 
From  every  calling  thicket,  and  I  fear 
The  whispering  wood  with  all  its  twilight  ghosts, 
Its  snakes  of  vine,  its  hateful  spears  of  thorn ! 

O  fling  close  round  me,  God,  Thy  moonlight's  gloom ! 
Thy  muffling  midnight  silences  send  down 
And  shroud  me  in  grim  isolation,  drench 
Me  in  oblivion  !    Let  lone-houred  Night 
Companion  me  upon  my  stealthy  ways  — 


7° 


THE   MAN   WHO    KILLED 


For  I  it  was  who  flung  the  first  red  blot 
On  earth's  green  breathing  fields,  —  I,  I  it  was 
Who  first  thrust  sorrow  in  the  sound  of  winds, 
And  tainted  life  with  blood ! 


n 

The  speaker  still  is  Cain,  beside  his  brother's  body,  now  lying 
in  the  quiet  gloom  of  a  rocky  cave,  opening  towards  the  East. 
One  thin  and  wavering  column  of  smoke  rises  from  a  sheaf  of 
unripened  grain  saturated  with  oil,  smouldering  on  a  flat  stone 
nearby.     The  smoke  makes  the  air  of  the  cave  thick  and  grey. 

How  long  is  it,  — 
How  long,  O  aching  silence,  has  he  lain 
Here  where  I  thrust  him  from  the  ways  of  Eve 
Our  Mother,  and  from  all  the  wheeling  stars 
That  seemed  to  watch  and  understand  his  eyes, 
And  their  white  emptiness?    I  hid  him  deep, 
Yet  from  my  own  grim  sight  could  hide  him  not ! 
For  in  wild  fear,  by  root  and  brake  and  rock 
I  dragged  him  from  the  light.    Then  at  his  side 
All  through  the  endless  afternoon,  all  through 
The  still,  dusk,  stifling  evening,  and  all  through 
The  midnight  full  of  little  cries,  I  watched. 
Eden  shone  gold  against  the  eastern  sky, 
Dawn  crept  dull  grey  across  the  world,  and  still 
Close  at  his  side  I  watched,  that  if  he  slept 
He  yet  with  sun  and  bird  might  wake  again. 
Blood-red  the  morning  grew,  green  waters  stirred, 


THE   MAN   WHO    KILLED  7 1 

The  leaves  forgot  their  silence,  loud  the  birds 
Broke  into  song,  and  nearby  grazed  a  ewe  — 
But  still  this  dull  face  washed  with  pitying  tears 
From  tangled  leaf  and  grass  saw  not  the  light, 
Nor  did  he  move  again ! 

And  then  I  knew ! 
Then  through  my  veins  a  desolation  black 
With  horror  crept  and  burned,  for  I  that  hour 
Stood  face  to  face  with  Death !    Shrilling,  my  fear 
In  one  great  cry  rang  down  the  very  gloom 
Of  Hell's  most  inchoate  murk,  and  hungry  gulfs 
Of  isolation  sucked  each  echo  in. 
And  all  the  vaulted  galleries  of  Woe 
And  nether  anguish  in  that  hour  I  knew ! 
From  Eden's  obdurate  walls  the  naming  swords 
Of  angels  flashed  thrice  deep,  while  drunkenly 
I  fell  and  grovelled,  and  cried  out  to  Thee, 

0  God,  in  pity  yet  to  veil  Thy  sun, 

To  still  keep  dark  a  little  time  Thy  dawn, 
And  all  Thy  careless  crying  things  strike  dumb ! 

1  evermore  must  frenzied  turn  and  feed 
On  my  own  fears,  some  pitiful  content 

Tear  from  this  heart,  foreknowing  in  each  bone 
The  End  toward  which  I  crumble  day  by  day, 
The  worm  toward  which  I  ripen  hour  by  hour ! 
Stung  into  thought  I  stand,  and  from  this  day 
The  balm  of  dreams  remedial  must  seek; 
For  Adam,  when  he  walked  the  first  wide  night 


72 


THE   MAN   WHO    KILLED 


And  saw  the  threading  stars  enweaving  slow 
The  fringes  of  God's  grey  infinitudes, 
Felt  not  this  loneliness  of  soul  that  makes 
Me  marked  of  men ! 

All  time  to  me  the  world 
Shall  homeless  lie !    Back  from  those  hills  where  he 
Now  fares  a  hostage  I  shall  ever  cringe, 
Since  at  his  twilight  bourne  of  Emptiness 
He  stands  to  bar  my  way,  to  fling  me  out 
On  desperate  life  and  days  with  terrors  strewn. 
He  died  but  once,  yet  I  a  thousand  times 
In  maddened  thought  must  die,  and  wake,  and  die; 
And  all  the  woe  of  our  torn  father  thrust 
Once  out  into  the  night,  was  naught  to  mine 
This  reeling  hour ! 

O,  blast,  God,  with  Thy  bolt 
This  awful  air  so  hushed  I  cannot  breathe ! 
Deep,  deep  in  Thine  unfathomed  solitudes 
Hurl  me  and  hide  me  till  the  wings  of  Time 
Have  withered  into  dust !     O,  do  Thy  worst,  — 
God,  lash  me  and  drive  me  like  a  broken  leaf 
Down  Thy  dark  worlds,  confound  me  as  Thou  wilt, 
But  rend  this  silence  that  about  me  broods ! 
O  calm  me  with  some  doom  quite  adequate ! 
Strike  quick,  and  have  it  done,  for  how,  indeed, 
Canst  Thou  once  blight  this  guilty  head  with  fire, 
How  fiercely  crush  this  hand,  that  first  lured  Death 
Into  the  world,  and  brought  this  timeless  ruin 


THE  MAN   WHO    KILLED  73 

To  one  so  warm  with  movement  and  with  dream? 
White  sleeper,  you  who  once  were  strong  to  act, 
Who  found  earth  beautiful,  and  joyed  in  life, 
Yet  from  this  day  must  slowly  be  demeaned 
And  darkened  into  dust  and  be  forgot, 
Can  you  not  wake  but  once,  and  plead  for  me? 
O,  tongue  so  eloquent  one  day  ago 
And  now  so  silent  grown,  but  sigh  to  me 
That  all  His  dews,  His  soft  assuaging  rains 
May  yet  from  earth's  glad  grasses  wash  this  blot, 
As  here  I  wash  your  body  with  hot  tears ! 

Nay,  o'er  you  keeping  watch  I  draw  the  scent 
Of  carnage  still  unknown,  the  savor  thin 
Of  deaths  untold,  and  ulcerous  hates  unwombed, 
Hot  rapine,  war,  and  conflagrations  wide ! 
From  this  day  down  unto  the  last  slow  throb 
Of  mortal  time,  life  shall  a  burden  seem 
To  me,  and  all  my  sons  in  sorrow  born ! 
Old  fears  shall  whimper  in  our  ageing  veins, 
Remorse  and  gloom  with  me  and  mine  shall  walk. 
My  children  and  my  children's  children  sprung 
From  these  dark  loins  contaminate  all  time 
With  undefined  new  dreads  shall  tainted  go. 
Down  ashen  years  unknown,  while  gazing  out 
With  eyes  still  unconsoled  into  the  West 
Where  swim  eve's  placid  stars,  the  heirs  of  strive 
For  ever  shall  be  mocked  with  dreams  of  Peace; 


74  THE  MAN   WHO    KILLED 

And  Love,  o'er-desperately  sought,  shall  be 

As  bitter  ashes  in  their  sated  mouths 

To  madden  them.    And  while  they  weep,  the  swords 

Of  angels  golden  in  the  dusk  of  Time 

Shall  guard  life's  lonely  Edens  unforgot; 

And  hating  death,  man  still  by  fire  and  sword 

Shall  die,  all  torn  by  predetermined  war ! 

Immitigably  this  old  wound  shall  ache 

Down  all  the  ages,  for  my  sons  must  bear 

The  curse  and  brand  of  Cain,  although  I  fling 

Hot  life's  retrieving  seed  across  strange  lands,  — 

Though  in  o'er-passionate  dim  futile  thirst 

Of  days  continual,  I  people  thick 

The  ages  and  the  loneliest  fields  of  earth,  — 

Still  shall  I  not  atone  for  this  first  blood ! 


ON  A  PORTRAIT  OF  R.  L.   S. 

V\Z"AS  it  this  dun  and  sombre-breasted  bird 

Who  sang  so  gladly,  with  a  throat  so  frail ! 
Not  for  his  crest,  but  for  the  songs  we  heard, 
Let  us  remember  then  the  nightingale ! 


NORTHERN   PINES  75 


NORTHERN    PINES 

T   PASS  where  the  pines  for  Christmas 

Stand  thick  in  the  crowded  street, 
"Where  the  groves  of  Dream  and  Silence 
Are  paced  by  feverish  feet. 

And  far  thro'  the  rain  and  the  street-cries 
My  home-sick  heart  goes  forth 

To  the  pine-clad  hills  of  childhood, 
To  the  dark  and  tender  North. 

And  I  see  the  glooming  pine-lands, 
And  I  thrill  to  the  Northland  cold, 

Where  the  sunset  falls  in  silence 
On  the  hills  of  gloom  and  gold ! 

And  the  still  dusk  woods  close  round  me, 

And  I  know  the  waiting  eyes 
Of  my  North,  as  a  child's,  are  tender, 

As  a  sorrowing  Mother's,  wise ! 


j6  ON  RE-READING   HAMLET 


ON    RE-READING    HAMLET 

i 

r\  GOD,  if  this  were  all ! 

To  see  the  naked  Right, 
And  then  by  day  and  night 
To  crush  o'er  Circumstance, 
Despair,  and  petty  Chance, 
And  fight  the  one  good  fight! 

O  God,  if  this  were  all ! 

n 

If  this  were  only  all ! 
But,  ah !  to  see,  and  yet 
Half  fear  the  waves  that  fret 
Beyond  the  Harbor  Bar; 
To  strive  not,  since  the  star 
Lies  from  us,  oh  so  far; 
To  know,  and  not  forget ! 

O  God,  that  this  is  all ! 


THE   SINGERS  77 


THE    SINGERS 

VJ/ISTFUL  by  the  door  they  wait, 
Tired  of  all  their  dusty  mart, 
Dreaming  we  go  desolate 

Since  from  them  we  dwell  apart ! 

Wistful  in  the  Xight  they  cry 

Through  their  wall'd  and  cramped  abode, 
While  they  hear  us  trooping  by 

With  the  moonlight  on  the  Road ! 

Mad  we  are  and  glad  we  are, 
Housed  by  all  this  goodly  Home 

Roofed  by  sun  and  wheeling  star  — 
With  the  whole  wide  world  to  roam ! 

What  each  jocund  day  shall  give 

That  we  take  and  go  content; 
Singing  out  the  life  we  live, 

—  And  they  watch  in  wonderment. 

And  they  never  once  shall  know 
What  the  solace  or  the  quest, 


78  THE   SINGERS 

As  they  see  us  come  and  go, 
Fluting  down  their  lonely  West 

Till  they  wait  as  children  wait 
Round  our  swart  and  mystic  band 

And  like  children,  soon  or  late, 
Listening  humbly,  understand! 


*J* 


RICHES 

TT  7ASTED  and  all  in  rags  his  starved  soul  went, 

And,  opulently  paupered,  he  grew  old 
And  crouched  with  loaded  hands  and  heart  forespent, 
A  beggar,  with  a  million  bits  of  gold  1 


WHEN  THE  KING  COMES  INTO  HIS  OWN  79 


WHEN   THE    KING    COMES    INTO    HIS    OWN 

\XTE  who  knew  the  True  King  well, 

We  who  loved  and  served  him  long, 
Cleaved  to  him  whate'er  befell  — 

We  who  when  they  did  him  wrong 
Could  have  faced  the  Hounds  of  Hell 

With  a  cheer  and  snatch  of  song  — 

While  re-crowd  about  his  throne 

Those  who  serve  when  all  is  fair, 
Knight  by  knight  oft  tried  and  known 

We  shall  stand  close  round  him  there, 
WTien  our  King  comes  to  his  own  — 

Stand  with  humbled  heads  and  bare, 
While  a  great  shout  —  one  alone  — 

For  the  True  King  rends  the  air. 

With  that  cheer  shall  die  the  flame, 

With  that  day,  the  tale  be  told ! 
Never,  Comrade,  quite  the  same 

Those  who  come  and  serve  for  gold ! 
We  went  ragged,  knew  no  shame, 

In  those  lean,  glad  days  of  old ! 


80  WHEN  THE  KING  COMES  INTO  HIS  OWN 

So,  all  out-at-elbows,  grim, 

Hand  by  hand  on  swords  a-rust 
(While  his  Kingly  eyes  are  dim 

And  his  God,  he  knows,  is  just !) 
We  shall  sadly  kneel  to  him, 

King  and  Cause  we  took  on  trust  — 
Then  past  plain  and  mountain  rim 

Ride  away  all  stained  with  dust ! 


THE    SEEKERS 

"IT" NOCK,  and  the  Door  shall  open:  ah,  we  knocked 

And  found  the  unpiteous  portals  locked. 
Waiting,  we  learned  us  croons  to  while  along 
Those  dreary  watches  —  and  ye  call  it  Song ! 

Seek,  and  thine  eyes  shall  find:   Oh,  we  have  sought 
The  Vision  of  our  Dream,  yet  found  it  not. 
We  limn  its  broken  shadow,  that  our  heart 
May  half  remember  —  and  ye  call  it  Art ! 


DEATH   AND  A    CHILD  8 1 


DEATH  AND  A  CHILD 

HpO  us  who  watched  thine  earliest  days, 
"Who  knew  so  well  thy  childish  ways, 
Oh  strange  it  seems  that  Death  should  turn 
That  gloomy  face  so  gauntly  stern 
Aside  to  thee,  —  thou  wert  so  young, 
And  to  thy  childhood  language  clung 
A  touch  of  that  strange  spirit  tongue, 
That  softer  language  of  the  skies, 
God's  angels  spoke  in  Paradise. 

Did  Death  grow  envious  that  we 

Should  half  forget  His  majesty? 

Deep  did  He  strike,  to  make  us  feel 

He  still  expected  we  should  kneel ! 

We  dreamed  not  He  would  deign  to  come 

And  strike  such  childhood  babbling  dumb. 

Such  pitiable  small  talk  as  thine 

Had  never  led  us  to  divine 

Death  hearkened  closely  to  each  word 

Thy  brooding  mother  scarcely  heard. 

Was  it  her  own  o'er-wistful  gaze 

First  drew  Him  from  His  wonted  ways 

To  that  sad  wall  of  angels'  wings 


82  DEATH   AND  A    CHILD 

That  guarded  thy  last  slumberings, 
Where  He,  half  tired  of  coquetry 
With  those  who  bowed  a  willing  knee, 
No  longer  in  mere  dalliance  smiled, 
But  showed  His  power,  and  took  a  child? 

Thy  little  hand  has  clutched  His  hand, 

And  we  no  longer  understand 

How  once  we  deemed  Death  so  austere. 

The  old-time  face  we  used  to  fear 

Has  lost  its  ancient  horror  now, 

Since  that  inexorable  brow 

Once  smiled  and  bended  over  thine. 

Yes,  lighter-hearted  Proserpine, 

To  us  those  glooms  where  thou  art  gone 

Can  never  more  be  Acheron, 

Yes,  one  weak,  childish  hand  has  hurled 

The  terrors  from  that  Underworld ! 

LIFE    AND    LABOR 

TT ERE  on  a  languid  deck  how  tranquilly  we  float ! 

Seafaring   now   seems   easy,   thanks   to  —  call   it 
coal !  — 
Who  blames  us  all  for  idling,  on  an  idle  boat  ? 

Fools ,  stand  and  watch  one  moment  in  the  stokers'  hole! 


LYONORS   OF  LYONESSE  83 


LYONORS    OF    LYONESSE 

PROM  her  dark  tower  she  lightly  threw 

To  him  three  roses  red; 
He  spake  no  word  as  near  he  drew, 
But  bowed  his  troubled  head. 

Two  lilies  white,  for  Innocence, 
Burned  on  his  shield,  like  flame; 

He  dare  not  view  those  ramparts  whence 
Such  sin-dark  roses  came. 

For  her  red  mouth  was  wise  with  love, 
No  shame  her  laughter  screened, 

Where,  moonlight-bosomed,  she  above 
His  wall-bound  pathway  leaned,  — 

Since  clad  in  mail  he  rode  for  Christ, 

And  strait  the  path  he  trod; 
Nor  scorned  he  to  be  sacrificed 

For  his  most  jealous  God. 

But  from  her  rose-grown  tower  she  came, 

And  laughed  into  his  eyes. 
He  flushed  to  his  pale  brow  with  shame, 

And  spake  unto  the  skies: 


84  LYONORS   OF  LYON  ESSE 

"  To  Christ  this  woman  yet  shall  bow, 

Or  be  cast  down !  "  he  said. 
"  Yea,  where  she  flaunts  her  scarlet  now, 

Shall  float  the  Cross  instead !  " 

She  laughed  where  swayed  his  spear  aloft, 

For  she  no  arms  did  wear; 
All  her  slim  body,  white  and  soft, 

Of  steel  and  mail  was  bare. 

Her  embattled  eyes  broke  into  song; 

A  challenge  paled  her  cheek, 
For  in  her  weakness  she  stood  strong, 

He,  in  his  strength,  lay  weak. 

She,  in  twined  gold  soft-helmeted, 

Cuirassed  in  yielding  rose, 
From  her  wise  pleading  mouth  of  red 

Let  fall  sweet  words  for  blows. 

Oft  had  he  fought  in  his  stern  mail, 

But  no  such  fight  as  this; 
She  crept  where  he  stood  stunned  and  pale 

And  his  sad  mouth  did  kiss. 

He  said  no  word,  but  on  his  face 
Like  fire  her  red  lips  burned; 

He  said  no  word,  but  from  that  place 
Broken  and  bent  he  turned. 


LYOXORS   OF   LYOXESSE  85 

She  saw  him  sered  and  stricken  seek 

His  lonelier  paths  again; 
Then  two  strange  tears  crept  down  her  cheek, 

And  she  was  crowned  with  pain. 

She  sank  before  him  on  the  ground, 

And  clasped  his  iron  greaves; 
And  wept  forlorn  where  she  had  frowned,  — 

Her  hot  tears  fell  like  leaves. 

"  This  man  took  not  my  wanton  kiss, 

He  stooped  and  shamed  me  not ! 
I  ne'er  have  known  a  man  like  this,  — 

And  such  I  need,  God  wot !  " 

But,  trembling,  he  still  sought  the  way 

That  lightly,  once,  he  trod, 
And  riding  whispered:  "  From  this  day, 

I  need  thy  strength,  O  God !  " 

But  like  a  little  child,  she  wept; 

Then  laughed,  that  it  was  so; 
And  watching  long,  like  one  who  slept 

And  wakened,  saw  him  go; 

And  saw,  with  widened  eyes,  that  hour 

A  beauty  known  not  of 
From  her  torn  body  break  and  flower, 

Yet  dreamed  not  it  was  love, 


86  LYONORS   OF  LYON  ESSE 

But  prayed,  that  night,  for  his  pure  soul 
And  thanked  her  new-found  God 

That  he  had  gone  unhurt  and  whole 
To  that  white  world  he  trod. 

She  dreamed  not  once,  how  like  a  sword 

Still  through  his  visor  press'd 
Her  perilous  face,  how  each  soft  word, 

Like  thorns,  still  tore  his  breast. 

She  dreamed  not  of  the  fight  he  fought,  — 

Till  lo,  he  crept  again 
To  her  with  his  high  vows  forgot,  — 

And  then  she  knew  his  pain ! 

Then  on  his  fallen  sword  she  wept; 

From  where  his  arms  did  cling 
About  her  conquering  knees,  she  leapt 

And  cried,  "  I  did  this  thing !  " 

"  But  ne'er  the  white  steel  of  your  soul 
Was  mine  to  break  or  save ! 
From  its  soiled  sheath,  unscathed  and  whole 
It  still  shall  flash  and  wave !  " 

"  For  me,"  she  cried,  "  for  God,  you  must 
The  godly  knight  remain !  "  .  .  . 

And  through  his  naked  heart  she  thrust 
The  sword  his  hand  would  stain. 


LYOKORS   OF  LYOXESSE  87 

On  his  dead  mouth  she  pressed  one  kiss, 
And  "  God,  I  thank  thee!  "  cried, 

"  For  giving  me  the  strength  for  this; 
That  spotless,  see,  he  died  i  " 

Then  on  her  woman's  breast  she  bound 

His  coat  of  mail  that  day, 
And  with  grim  plume  and  armet  crowned 

Rode  e'er  for  Christ,  men  say! 


IN  THE  TEMPLE   OF   XEPTUNE 

(At  Paestum) 

'"PHE  old  gods  wane,  and  new  gods  come, 

And  men  where  Deities  once  dwelt 

Bend  puzzled  knees,  and  find  them  dumb,  — 

These  gods  to  whom  their  fathers  knelt. 

If  in  no  temples  far  or  near 

To  earth's  new-given  gods  we  bow, 

Let  us  still  kneel  to  Beauty  here, 

Who  bears  her  god-head  on  her  brow ! 


88  THE   SONATA   APPASSIONATA 


THE   SONATA   APPASSIONATA 

TN  distant  rooms,  above  sad  wind  and  rain, 

She,  who  her  grieving  heart  could  utter  not, 
Weighed  down  with  wearied  love's  too-golden  chain, 

Lures  from  low  keys  this  glory  tear-enwrought ; 
And  with  bent  head  I  listen,  and  I  know 

(As  he  once  knew,  who  through  her  speaks  again) 
That  gladness,  at  its  greatest,  walks  with  woe, 

That  music,  at  its  deepest,  dwells  with  pain ! 

For  luting  through  Earth's  loneliness  and  gloom, 

A  second  Orpheus  of  more  frenzied  soul, 
He  came  to  us,  who  groped  as  from  a  tomb 

For  that  free  air  down  which  his  music  stole. 
He,  from  his  more  harmonious  world  of  song 

Crept  in  to  us,  who  dreamed  with  heavy  eyes 
And  heard  his  lyre,  and  then  could  only  long, 

Half  madly  for  life's  unremembered  skies ! 
And,  like  Eurydice,  we  yearned  again 

To  tread  some  lost  and  more  melodious  air, 
Where  once  we  too  had  known  that  happier  strain 

And  once  our  exiled  feet  were  wont  to  fare ! 


THE   SONATA   APPASSIONATA  I 

A  gleam  of  lives  more  golden  but  long  gone, 

A  thin,  strange  echo  of  celestial  things, 
Came  to  us,  and  forgotten  glories  shone 

From  out  the  fires  of  Earth's  rememberings. 
Then,  then  we  knew  our  Dusk  once  had  its  Dawn, 

And  all  those  dreams  that  tease  our  mortal  breast, 
All,  all  those  ways  we  would,  yet  could  not.  reach, 

All,  all  our  vain  desires,  our  old  unrest, 
In  Song  he  woke,  that  long  had  slept  in  speech ! 

For  he  had  heard  those  chords  Uranian 
That  must  divinely  madden  him  who  hears; 

And  they  on  high  beheld  the  god-like  pain 
That  mocked  his  soul,  and  closed  his  mortal  ears ! 

So  thou,  sad  earthly  exile,  on  low  keys, 

Through  wind  and  rain,  in  quiet  rooms  afar, 
Seeking  this  immemorial  ache  to  ease 

And  flinging  forth  against  each  mortal  bar 
Once  more  his  immemorial  harmonies, 

With  hands  that  are  as  wings,  from  star  to  star 
Now  bearest  me  away,  past  earthly  seas 

To  some  old  Home,  where  God  and  Music  are ! 


9o  MY   FRIEND,    THE   ENEMY 


MY   FRIEND,    THE    ENEMY 

CINCE  your  fierce  hate  has  so  befriended  me, 

Who  shall  oppose  you,  watchful  to  the  end  — 
Since  'twas  your  covert  blade  I  might  not  see, 

Made  vigilant  this  breast  I  must  defend  — 
Still  keep  my  sword  from  rust  and  slumber  free, 

And  since  on  blow  and  parry  souls  depend 
Call  no  soft  truce  to  break  my  strength,  but  be, 

In  endless  opposition,  still  my  friend ! 

* 

THE  MUSICIAN  SPEAKS  IN  CANDOR 

IT' NOW  him,  whose  art  ye  fondly  blame  and  praise, 

As  but  a  reed,  whereon  some  Hand  unknown, 
God-like,  to  lute  ineloquent,  e'er  plays 
The  one  old  ineffectual  monotone  S 

SUNSET   IN    THE    FAR    NORTH 

T    OW  in  the  west  the  sullen  mountains  lie, 

White-fanged  and  gaunt,  against  a  blood-red  sky, 
Where  starved  and  wolfish,  stalked  from  height  to  height, 
Day  gnaws  upon  its  last  thin  rind  of  Light ! 


A    WO  MAX'S   HAXD  91 


A    WOMAN'S    HAXD 

HP  HE  dawn  grew  golden  in  the  east, 

The  dancing  and  the  music  ceased; 
The  world,  the  world  of  men,  awoke, 
And  then  the  guest  who  tarried  spoke, 

And  as  he  spoke  he  took  her  hand 
In  his  —  he  could  not  understand  !  — 
And  held  it,  tiny,  white,  and  slim, 
While  she  in  silence  gazed  at  him. 

"  Soft  little  tender  bird-like  thing, 

May  time,  and  toil,"  he  murmured,  "  bring 

No  line  to  thee,  poor  girlish  hand !  " 

—  For  he  could  never  understand  !  — 

Then  she,  with  one  strange  wistful  look, 
Drew  back  the  hand  he  idly  took, 
And,  smiling,  hid  it  from  his  gaze 
While  he  bent  low,  and  went  his  ways. 

The  little  hand  remained  the  same 
Soft  bird-like  thing,  and  no  toil  came 


92  A    WOMAN'S  HAND 

To  take  its  tenderness  away 
Or  steal  its  beauty  day  by  day. 

For  in  the  world  its  only  part 

Was  but  to  press  a  woman's  heart 

—  Oh  wayward  hand  so  white  and  slim ! 

That  ached  with  all  its  love  for  him ! 


*j? 


THE   AGE    OF   LAUGHTER 

CTILL  drugged  with  Song,  and  gay  with  Laughter,  lo, 
How  round  the  board  they  feast,  while  gaunt-eyed 
grown 
Here  squats  their  outcast  Fool,  and  asks  how  show 

The  solemn  stars,  and  questions  what  is  known 
Beyond  the  Shadows  that  affright  men  so 

They  needs   must   drink !     And   flute   and   pipe   are 
blown 
In  reassuring  mirth,  and  glasses  flow, 

And  much  brave  laughter  wakes,  and  floor  and  throne 
Reflect  the  valiant  lamps.  .  .  .  And  yet  they  know 

That  out  beyond  the  Door  no  light  is  shown, 
And  in  the  end  they  one  by  one  must  go 

Home  through  the  Silence  of  the  Night  —  alone ! 


SHE   SEEMED   A    WILD   BIRD  93 


SHE    SEEMED    A    WILD    BIRD 

CHE  seemed  a  wild  bird  caged  on  earth, 
Who  fretted  in  her  prison  bars; 
A  voice  from  heaven's  ethereal  blue, 

Still  unforgetf ul  of  her  birth ; 

And  while  she  gazed  out  on  the  stars. 
She  sighed  to  look  where  once  she  new, 
Until  her  wings  at  last  broke  through ! 

And  from  my  lonelier  world  I  gaze, 
And  should  my  wistful  eyes  once  see 

Some  new  star  drift  down  heaven's  ways, 
I  know  she  looks  once  more  on  me, 
And  by  the  astral  barrier  waits 
Until  my  angel  swing  the  gates, 
And  earth  no  longer  cages  me ! 

LABOR 


W 


rAR  not  on  him !  —  his  dread  artillery 
Doth  lie  in  idle  arm  and  rusting  tool; 
And  lo  he  sets  his  ruthless  legions  free 
When  once  he  lets  his  sullen  anvils  cool ! 


94  DESTINY 


DESTINY 

"LJ  E  sat  behind  his  roses  and  did  wake 

With  wanton  hands  those  passions  grim 
That  naught  but  bitter  tears  and  blood  can  slake, 
And  naught  but  years  can  dim. 

So  o'er  their  wine  did  Great  Ones  sit  and  nod, 

Ordaining  War  ...  as  it  befell : 
Men  drunk  with  drum  and  trumpet  mouthed  of  God 

And  reeled  down  blood-washed  roads  to  Hell ! 

THE    KEEPER 

"\X7TDE  is  the  world  and  wide  its  open  seas, 

Yet  I  who  fare  from  pole  to  pole  remain 
A  prisoned  Hope  that  paces  ill  at  ease, 

A  captive  Fear  that  fumbles  with  its  chain. 

I  once  for  Freedom  madly  did  aspire, 

And  stormed  His  bars  in  many  a  burst  of  rage: 

But  see,  my  Keeper  with  his  brands  of  fire 
Has  cowed  me  quite  .  .  .  and  bade  me  love  my  cage ! 


THE    TWO   ROOMS  95 


THE    TWO    ROOMS 

u  (^  OOD  -  BYE,  little  room,"  she  murmured, 

When  she  went,  this  many  a  year; 
"  O  white  little  room,  forgive  me, 
For  my  heart  was  breaking  here !  " 

But  still  with  a  poignant  sadness 

The  scent  of  the  lilac  bloom 
Blows  in  at  the  open  window 

And  fills  her  lonely  room. 

And  still  she  can  half  remember 

The  imprisoning  walls  of  white, 
And  the  hours  of  her  lonely  sorrow, 

And  the  tears  she  wept  by  night. 

And  still  through  the  years  she  wonders 

At  the  lilacs  white  with  dusk, 
Though  her  chamber  is  hung  with  scarlet 

And  her  pillow  is  sweet  with  musk. 

For  now  she  is  done  with  heart-aches, 
And  the  midnight  finds  her  glad : 

But  the  earlier  tear-wet  pillow 
Is  the  one  that  least  was  sad! 


96  MEMORIES 


MEMORIES 

/~\UT  of  the  Night  we  come,  and  we  shall  go 

Back  to  the  Night :  and  that  is  all  we  know ! 
Yet  clinging  to  us  are  deep  mystic  things, 
Vague  dreams  and  visions,  dim  rememberings 
And  whispers  low  that  tell  us  we  have  known 
Some  vanished  glory  and  strange  beauties  flown 
That  are  not  of  the  dust  from  which  we  climb 
Up  to  the  kinglier  pinnacles  of  Time ! 
E'er  by  familiar  Doorways  are  we  borne, 
And  old  to  us  how  often  seems  a  morn ! 
And  yet  some  Hand  has  fettered  close  our  hearts; 
And  Life's  forgetful  captive  seldom  parts 
The  spirit-chain,  and  stands  his  moment  free ! 
But  still,  at  times,  the  odor  of  the  Sea, 
The  silences  of  night,  the  rise  and  fall 
Of  bells  that  over  lonely  uplands  call, 
The  pulse  and  throb  of  Music  passionate, 
The  lark  amid  the  pines  o'er  which  the  late 
Slow-paling  crowns  of  sunset-glory  rest, 
The  autumn  fields  all  golden  in  the  West, 
The  measured  breathing  of  a  bosom  deep 
In  life's  vast  mystery  that  men  call  Sleep, 
And  life's  sad  pleasure  that  is  known  as  Love  — 


MEMORIES  97 

These  whisper  of  the  things  we  know  not  of, 
Vaguely  do  these  at  some  rare  moment  speak 
Of  those  old  glories  that  we  idly  seek 
Ere  on  our  dream  the  doors  of  Being  close, 
And  all  the  beauty  and  the  wonder  goes ! 


* 


THE    ASCENT    OF    MAN 

T^HE  gods  dwelt  nearer  men  in  olden  days; 

Yea,  through  the  world  ethereal  feet  once  trod 
Since  now  they  walk  their  more  secluded  ways, 
'Tis  man  climbs  nearer  each  exalted  god ! 


98  the  SHADOW IX g  past 


THE    SHADOWING    PAST 

TJ"  E  followed  me  with  ghost-like  tread. 

He  dogged  me  night  and  day; 
Each  time  I  dreamed  that  he  was  dead 
There  at  my  door  he  lay. 

'Though  once  I  harbored  such  a  hound, 

He  is  no  longer  mine ! 
So  him  at  last  I  caught  and  bound, 

And  hushed  his  ceaseless  whine. 

Dark  paths  with  many  a  twist  I  took, 
Strange  woods  with  twilight  dim; 

Through  by-ways  thick  with  turn  and  crook 
Alone  I  carried  him. 

His  last  cries  in  a  tarn  I  drowned, 

And  hurried  home  once  more: 
Lo,  waiting  there,  my  old  gaunt  Hound 

Stood  whining  at  the  door! 


THE   STORM  99 


THE    STORM 

CAME  to  you  where  drenched  with  brine 
You  watched  our  granite  shore, 
Where  cold  between  your  face  and  mine 
The  stinging  tempest  tore. 


I 


We  watched  estranged ;   but  while  we  gazed 

Those  teeth  of  granite  ground 
A  ship  that  struck,  and  sank,  and  raised.. 

And  ten  poor  sailors  drowned. 

Then  with  a  little  cry  of  dread, 

A  sob  of  sudden  pain, 
You  crept  to  me,  and,  lo,  the  Dead 

Brought  lije  to  Love  again! 


IOO  THE  LURE   O'  LIFE 


THE   LURE   O'   LIFE 

\X7HEN  my  life  has  enough  of  love,  and  my  spirit 

enough  of  mirth, 
When  the  ocean  no  longer  beckons  me,  when  the  road- 
way calls  no  more, 
Oh,  on  the  anvil  of  Thy  wrath,  remake  me,  God,  that 
day! 

When  the  lash  of  the  wave  bewilders,  and  I  shrink  from 

the  sting  of  the  rain, 
When  I  hate  the  gloom  of  Thy  steel-gray  wastes,  and 

slink  to  the  lamp-lit  shore, 
Oh,  purge  me  in  Thy  primal  fires,  and  -fling  me  on  my 

way! 

When  I  house  me  close  in  a  twilit  inn,  where  I  brood  by 

a  dying  fire, 
When  I  kennel  and  cringe  with  fat  content,  where  a  pillow 

and  loaf  are  sure, 
Oh,  on  the  anvil  of  Thy  wrath,  remake  me,  God,  that 

day! 


THE  EJJM    0'   LIFE:  IOI 

When  I  quail  at  the  snow  on  the  uplands,  when  I  crawl 
from  the  glare  of  the  sun, 

When  the  trails  that  are  lone  invite  me  not,  and  the  half- 
way lamps  allure, 
Oh,  purge  me  in  Thy  primal  fires,  and  fling  me  on  my 
way  I 

When  the  wine  has  all  ebbed  from  an  April,  when  the 

Autumn  of  life  forgets 
The  call  and  the  lure  of  the  widening  West,  the  wind  in 

the  straining  rope, 
Oh,  on  the  anvil  of  Thy  wrath,  remake  me,  God,  that 

day! 

When   I    waken   to   hear   adventurers   strange   throng 

valiantly  forth  by  night, 
To  the  sting  of  the  salt-spume,  dust  of  the  plain,  and 

width  of  the  western  slope, 
Oh,  purge  me  in  Thy  primal  fires  and  fling  me  on  my 


way 


!  — 


When  swarthy  and  careless  and  grim  they  throng  out 

under  my  rose-grown  sash, 
And  I  —  I  bide  me  there  by  the  coals,  and  I  know  not 

heat  nor  hope, 
Then,  on  the  anvil  of  Thy  wrath,  remake  me,  God,  that 

day! 


102  A   DIALOGUE   m  SPRING 


A    DIALOGUE   IN   SPRING 

The  Monk  speaks.  He  is  old,  but  has  quiet  and  kindly 
eyes.  He  stands  with  one  thin  hand  on  a  sun-dial  dis- 
colored with  lichen. 

I  take  it,  madam,  on  a  day  like  this 
You  are  most  happy?     City  hearts,  I  think, 
Find  keener  beauties  in  this  quiet  place, 
Than  we,  who  live  and  die  between  the  hills ! 

The  Woman,  who  is  no  longer  young,  speaks: 
I  am  most  happy ! 

The  Monk  speaks: 

Yet  it  seemed  to  me 
Your  face  was  troubled,  when  I  chanced  to  come 
Down  past  the  breaking  hawthorn ! 

The  Woman  speaks: 

Yes;  I  know. 
It  was  the  children  calling,  far  away. 
It  was,  perhaps,  the  beauty  and  the  youth 
And  all  the  wonder  of  this  April  world ! 


A   DIALOGUE   IX  SPRING  103 

The  Monk  speaks: 
Then,  you  are  childless,  madam? 

The  Woman  speaks: 

Childless  —  yes ! 
The  Monk  speaks: 

I  understand  !     And  out  of  loneliness 

You  weep  a  little? 

The  Woman  speaks,  musingly. 

Xo ;  no ;  not  loneliness  .  .  . 
The  whisper  of  warm  grasses,  and  the  rain, 
The  brooding  depths  of  peace  through  rifted  pearl, 
The  mellow  call  and  flute  of  many  birds, 
The  showery  freshness,  and  the  seas  of  bloom 
Above  dark  orchards,  and  the  old,  old  balm, 
The  sunlight  veiled  with  mist,  the  muffled  sense 
Of  immemorial  rapture  —  O  dear  God, 
Are  these  today  not  doubly  sweet  to  me. 
Who  grew  o'erwise  through  sin,  who  watched  too  long 
By  twilit  casements  and  have  known  too  well 
The  gloomy  green  of  troubled  seas  at  eve, 
Till  all  their  brine  but  mortal  tear-drops  seemed, 
And  every  wave  a  woman's  heaving  breast 
And  evenr  surf  a  cry  of  sorrow  was ! 


104  A   DIALOGUE   IN  SPRING 

The  Monk,  turning  from  the  sun-dial,  speaks: 
They  who  much  loved,  forgiven  much  shall  be  i 
The  Woman  speaks,  gazing  down  the  valley: 

And  I,  who  am  defenceless  utterly, 

Look  out  on  life  with  eyes  no  longer  young 

And  hear  the  call  of  children,  far  away, 

And  touched  with  poignant  beauties  see  the  world 

About  me  waken  .  .  .  and  I  weep  a  little ! 

The  Monk  speaks: 

Dear  Lady,  old  all  Youth  in  time  must  grow, 
And  sad  or  happy  as  the  seasons  fall, 
We  must  accept  God's  will ! 

The  Woman  speaks: 

God's  will !     Yes,  yes, 
But  what  glad  Youth,  to  us  no  longer  young, 
Seems  not  with  sorrow  touched !     Oh,  sir,  what  Spring 
In  hearts  that  loved  once  well,  seems  not  too  sweet? 
Clouded  God's  suns  should  be  for  lives  like  mine; 
In  shade  and  moonlight  we  should  ever  walk, 
For  with  its  sweep  of  turgid  waters  life 
That  was  not  life  has  laid  my  spirit  waste 


A   DIALOGUE   IN  SPRING  105 

And  barren  days  have  left  me  bowed  and  worn ! 
For  much  I  knew,  and  suffered,  having  sinned ! 

(The  Woman  pauses,  and  turns  from  the  monk  to  the 
Valley  once  more) 

But  softly  as  the  green  leaves  take  the  light, 
I,  with  this  dreamy  air  grown  satisfied, 
Feel  stir  vague  gladness,  and  remember  now 
The  childish  pitiful  pale  things  of  youth; 
And  some  old  ghost  in  this  poor  body  caged 
Keeps  peering  out  with  eyes  that  are  not  mine; 
And  Love  itself,  immured  and  bruised  and  sealed 
In  trampled  earth,  still  through  the  darkness  feels 
The  stir  mysterious,  still  at  the  call 
Implacable  awakes,  and  from  grim  depths 
Still  stretches  forth,  and  reaches  for  the  sun! 
Deliriously,  see,  I  lose  myself 
In  Spring,  the  odorous  birth  and  burgeoning, 
The  lyric  sap  that  sweetens  into  leaves, 
The  innocent  quick  gladness  that  is  Earth's ! 


The  Monk  speaks: 

If  April,  year  by  year,  renews  the  world, 
Why  should  its  beauties  not  renew  a  soul? 


106  A   DIALOGUE   IN  SPRING 

The  Woman  speaks,  mournful-eyed: 

No,  these  are  not  for  withered  hearts  and  old, 
Yet  I,  today,  with  wider-seeing  eyes, 
Must  watch  the  rapture  and  the  careless  joy, 
The  call  of  children,  and  the  flute  of  birds, 
The  flash  of  rivers,  and  the  gleam  of  flowers, 
The  happy  sunlight  and  the  silent  hills, 
The  virginal  soft  greenness,  and  the  song 
Of  waters  low  .  .  .     The  very  wine  of  life 
They  are  to  me  in  my  new  .  .  .  loneliness ! 

The  Monk  speaks: 

God  giveth,  and  God  taketh  still  away ! 
You  seek  the  Shadow,  woman  —  but  the  Veil 
Before  His  face,  and  not  the  Face  itself ! 

The  Woman  speaks: 

Nay,  shall  I  not  more  desperately  now 

Cling  to  earth's  beauty  and  these  broken  threads 

Of  momentary  bliss,  since  they  must  go? 

In  mirth  so  wide  may  I  not  lose  myself, 

And  let  some  April  twilight  lull  away 

Each  tear  and  mem'ry  old,  and  bring  me  peace? 

May  I  not  make  my  heart  still  rapturous 

With  Spring,  at  one  with  all  that  stirs  toward  birth 


A   DIALOGUE   IN  SPRING 

With  ineradicable  dreams  still  young? 

For  once,  some  wayward  touch  of  Spring  it  was 

In  my  hot  breast  that  brought  to  youth  its  pang, 

To  my  great  love  its  unappeased  regret; 

And  now  through  Spring  alone  it  lies  for  me 

And  my  pale  heart  to  know  life's  passionate  bliss 

Of  Motherhood,  the  presage  and  the  hope, 

The  far  horizon  luring  fainting  hearts. 

So  let  me  drink  my  little  day  of  youth 

While  bird  and  child  and  sunlight  hold  their  lure 

Of  beauty,  bitter-sweet ! 

The  Monk  speaks: 

And  this  it  is 
That  you  call  Happiness? 

The  Woman  speaks: 

Yes;  pitiful 
The  old  enchantment  seems,  yet  still  it  snares 
All  sorrow  lightly  to  endure  the  links 
Of  age,  stings  us,  life's  disillusioned,  still 
To  cling  to  twilight  hopes,  and  be  content ! 
Yes,  broken,  touched  with  autumn,  many-teared, 
Today  I  am  at  one  with  youth  and  joy, 
And  through  my  being,  quietly  as  rain, 
The  old,  sad,  immemorial  rapture  wakes ! 


107 


108  A   DIALOGUE   IN  SPRING 

A  bell  sounds  from  the  grey  tower  to  the  right,  and  the 
monk  turns.  For  one  moment  he  waits  and  looks  back 
in  wonder,  but  the  woman,  whose  eyes  are  intent  on  the 
valley,  jails  to  see  that  he  is  about  to  speak,  and  he  leaves 
her.     The  woman  remains,  in  silence,  without  moving. 


4* 

FROM   THE   POETS'    CORNER 
{Westminster  Abbey) 


HpIME  was  I  teased  Thee  to  reveal 

Thine  unknown  Face  to  me; 
Yet  grant  not,  God,  that  foolish  prayer 
I  asked  long  since  of  Thee ! 

n 

Leave  me  Thy  nights,  thus  gemmed  with  stars, 
Thy  glooms,  through  which  to  grope, 

Since  from  the  dusk  of  Doubt  can  sing 
The  nightingales  of  hope ! 


THE   FUGITIVE  109 


THE   FUGITIVE 

A    HUNTED  thing,  through  copse  and  wood 
Night  after  night  he  skulked  and  crawled, 
To  where  amid  dark  homesteads  stood 
One  gloomy  garden  locked  and  walled. 

He  paused  in  fear  each  step  he  took, 
And  waited  till  the  moon  was  gone; 

Then  stole  in  by  the  little  brook 

That  still  laughed  down  the  terraced  lawn. 

And  up  the  well-known  path  he  crept, 
And  through  the  tangled  briars  tore; 

And  he,  while  they  who  sought  him  slept, 
Saw  his  ancestral  home  once  more. 

There  song  and  lights  were  still  a-stir, 
And  by  her  he  could  see  one  stand 

(And  he  had  fared  so  far  to  her ! ) 
Who  laughing  bowed  and  took  her  hand. 

Then  out  by  copse  and  wood  he  crept, 
While  yet  the  dawn  was  cold  and  dim ; 

And  while  in  her  white  room  she  slept, 

Twas  his  old  hound  crawled  back  with  him. 


HO  A   SONG  FOR    THE  ROAD 


A   SONG    FOR   THE   ROAD 

rT"sHE  outland  road  lies  white  and    long  beneath  the 

open  sun, 
The  dust  swings  up  between  us  where  the  mile-stone 

seasons  run, 
And  bent  on  our  grim  errands  empty-handed  outward 

trend 
Earth's  children  of  unrest  that  night  and  noonday  ask 

the  End. 

Yet  day  by  day  strange  marvels  lie  beneath  the  vaulted 

blue, 
And  dusk  by  dusk  our  road  is  hung  with  wonders  born 

anew ; 
But  time  and  fog  between  us  swing  and  far  we  have  to 

fare, 
Perplext  by  one  low  door  remote  and  what  awaits  us 

there. 

Yet  comrade  swart,  since  step  by  step  and  side  by  side 

with  you 
I  faced  the  open  day  and  night,  and  knew  the  fears  you 

knew,  — 


A   SONG   FOR    THE   ROAD  ill 

On  this,  the  Unreturning  Road,  O  what's  the  odds,  old 

friend, 
Since  in  some  tavern  dark  and  lone  we  slumber  at  the 

end !  — 

O  what's  the  odds,  that  of  our  Host  we  have  not  yet  been 

told, 
That  cramped  the  rooms  of  his  dark  house,  O  cramped 

the  rooms  and  cold, 
And  one  by  one  'tis  good-night  all  when  we  have  passed 

his  door  — 
Let's  take  the  day,  and  go  our  way,  and  ask  nor  want  for 

more! 

So  now  we  have  the  jovial  wind  about  us  noon  and 

night, 
A  snatch  of  song,  old  comrade  mine,  a  merry  strain  and 

light, 
To  wake  and  shake  the  roadway  ere  the  falling  dusk 

may  bring 
Its  pensive  note  and  wistful  where  the  outland  lanterns 

swing ! 

And  while  we  have  good  sun  and  star  and  jocund  blue 

above, 
While  Earth's  red  wine  of  life  still  runs,  our  fill  of  opiate 

love  — 


112  A   SONG   FOR    THE   ROAD 

Let's  drink  our  fill,  for  once  and  all,  and  in  Death's 

dubious  glooms 
Undo  our  pack  of  Memory  and  warm  those  darkened 
rooms ! 


ART'S    FUTILITIES 

T  N  youth  we  have  the  soul,  but  not  the  art ; 

When  patient  age  has  learned  all  art's  demands 
No  youthful  dream  within  the  old-grown  heart 
Remains  to  busy  our  perfected  hands! 


* 


REMORSE 

O  ED  lips  that  dumbly  quiver  for  his  kiss, 

And  fondly  now  but  touch  his  graveyard  stone, 
Ah,  lips  he  loved  of  old,  remember  this : 
He  had  not  died,  if  he  had  only  known! 


A   RHYMER'S  EPILOGUE  113 


A   RHYMER'S   EPILOGUE 

VOU  ask  if  I  at  Song's  behest 

Bared  here  my  heart  for  men  to  see. 
Bared  here  my  heart !  —  This  stands  a  jest, 
Old  Friend,  between  my  God  and  me ! 

For  I  ten  hundred  hearts  can  claim; 

Mad  blends  of  Rogue,  Ascetic,  Saint, 
White  Virtue  crowning  like  a  flame 

Black  gulfs  unprobed  I  dare  not  paint ! 

Villon  to-day,  to-morrow  Paul, 

The  Wolf  confounded  with  the  Lamb: 

Indeed,  Dear  Friend,  I  showed  not  all, 
WTio  know  not  yet  the  thing  I  am  ! 


SAPPHO   IX   LEUCADIA 


"5 


CHARACTERS 


Sappho. 


Omaphale. 


Erinna. 
Atthis. 

Me  gar  a. 

Phaon. 


Pittacus. 


Alcaens. 


Phocus. 


Inarchns. 


The  poetess  of  Lesbos.  A  beautiful  woman, 
still  in  her  youth,  passionate  in  word 
and  mood  and  action. 

A  young  girl  of  Pharos,  dark  and  slender, 
simple,  rustic,  almost  uncouth  in  her 
shrinking  timidity. 

Three  young  Lesbian  women   who   study 
under  Sappho. 

A  Lesbian  sailor;  a  swarthy,  high-spirited, 
audacious,  passionate  man  of  the  sea 
and  lover  of  women,  in  the  careless 
prime  of  his  youthful  strength. 

Tyrant  of  Mytilene;  lean,  calm,  dispas- 
sionate,  ambitious;   of  middle  age. 

The  Lesbian  poet;  a  thin,  thoughtful, 
stoical  man ;  an  embittered  scholar  of 
middle  age,  plotting  against  Sappho. 

An  idle  and  drunken  poet  of  Samnos; 
fat  and  garrulous. 

An  old  Captain  of  the  Guard  of  Pittacus; 
stolid,  grisled,  brawny. 


Hoplites,  Sailors,  a  Soothsayer,  Lesbian  Men  and  Women. 
116 


Sappho  in  Leucadia 


ACT    ONE 

Scene:  The  white-rocked  cliff  of  Leucate,  on  the  Island 
of  Leucadia,  overlooking  the  Ionian  Sea.  It  is  a 
quiet  night  in  early  Spring,  and  the  cliff  is  bathed 
in  the  clear,  blue-white  moonlight  of  the  Mediter- 
ranean. On  the  right  stands  the  Leucadian  Temple 
to  Apollo,  showing  a  wall  of  pale  marble  touched 
here  and  there  with  gold.  On  the  left  is  the  curving 
line  of  the  cliff -edge,  witli  the  sea  beyond.  Across 
the  centre  distance  stretches  a  shadowy  line  of  Leuca- 
dian sweet-apple  grafted  on  quince-trees,  in  full 
bloom.  Under  this  canopy  of  pale  blossoms,  silent 
and  motionless,  at  first,  sit  Sappho  and  Phaon, 
watching  the  sea.  Xear  by  stands  a  bronze  fire-basin, 
set  in  a  block  of  marble,  the  embers  within  it  still 
gently  smouldering.  The  only  sound,  as  the  curtain 
goes  up,  is  the  soft  and  rhythmical  wash  of  the  waves 
on  the  sea-beach  below,  which  continues  in  a  gentle 
117 


Il8  SAPPHO    IN   LEUCADIA 

undertone  throughout  the  act.  Once  the  curtain  is 
tip  the  quietness  is  broken  by  the  entrance  of  two 
swarthy,  slender-bodied  boys,  who  walk  slowly  across 
the  stage.  One  youth,  trailing  a  shepherd's  crook  on 
his  arm,  blows  a  plaintive-noted  air  on  a  seven- 
piped  syrinx.  He  stops  before  the  cliff-edge,  drops 
his  crook,  and  peers  below.  Then  he  flings  a  stone 
out  into  the  sea,  waiting  for  the  sound  of  its  fall. 
The  second  youth  continues  to  play  on  his  rough 
wooden  flute.  The  music  he  makes  is  the  blithely 
sorrowful  music  of  a  contented  and  primitive  people. 
The  boys  pass  on,  still  playing.  Sappho  stirs  and 
sighs,  and  raises  her  arms  to  Phaon' s  shoulders.  On 
her  head  she  wears  a  rope  of  violets  woven  into  a 
chaplet.  Her  gown,  however,  is  Grecian  in  its 
severity,  almost  plastic  in  its  loose,  full  lines  and 
statue-like  lack  of  color.  Phaon,  in  contrast  to  this, 
is  robed  in  the  softest  of  Tyrian  purples  above  a 
mild  Phoenician  azure.  Rings  of  beaten  gold,  a 
roughly  jewelled  knife-belt,  and  a  polished  bronze 
clasp  mounted  with  alternating  emeralds  and  sap- 
phires, tend  to  make  his  figure  one  of  almost  Oriental 
richness. 

Sappho 

Oh,  Phaon,  was  the  world  not  made  for  love 

On  such  a  night?     The  moonbeams  and  the  sound 

Of  music  and  the  whispering  of  the  waves  — 


SAPPHO    IN    LEUCADIA 

They  seem  a  woman's  breast  that  throbs  and  burns 
And  cries  for  love  ! 

Phaon 


119 


On  Leucate. 


This  is  our  last  glad  night 
Sappho 


Then  lean  to  me  again 
And  say  you  love  me  as  no  woman,  as 
No  goddess  clothed  in  glory,  e'er  was  loved. 
Kindle  and  keep  me  burning  like  a  flame 
Until  I  fall  into  your  arms  and  lie 
As  still  as  ashes.     Kiss  me  on  the  mouth 
And  say  I  am  your  first  love  and  your  last, 
The  only  love  that  all  your  life  has  known. 

Phaon 

Moon-white  and  honey-paie  and  delicate 
Your  body  seems,  and  yet  within  it  burns 
A  fire  more  fierce  than  Etna's. 

He  stoops  above  her,  but  she  thrusts  him  back  with  a 
sudden  fear. 

Sappho 

Nay,  I  know 
These  lips  were  not  the  first  you  crushed  and  kissed ! 


120  SAPPHO    IN    LEU  CAD  I A 

Phaon 
But  you  —  have  you  ne'er  sung  of  other  lips  ? 

Sappho   (with  the  deep  voice  of  utter  earnestness  and 
conviction) 

I  have  known  Love,  but  never  love  like  this ! 

I  have  loved  oft  and  lightly  so  at  last 

I  might  love  you !     These  other  men  were  not 

A  god  to  me !     They  were  the  trodden  path, 

But  not  the  Temple !     They  were  but  the  key 

And  not  the  chamber !     They  were  but  the  oil 

And  not  the  guarded  lamp,  the  shallow  tarn 

But  not  the  mystic  and  impassioned  Sea ! 

They  were  the  mallet,  not  the  marbled  line, 

The  unconsidered  sail,  but  not  the  port; 

They  were  the  flutters  of  a  wing  unfledged, 

The  footsteps  of  a  child  who  scarcely  dreamed 

Of  this  predestined  race  with  utter  Joy! 

They  only  served  to  bring  me  near  to  you, 

And  on  their  weakness  raise  and  throne  your  strength ! 

She  clings  to  him  again,  passionately,  -fiercely. 

Look,  Phaon,  in  my  eyes,  and  say  once  more 
You  will  not  change,  that  you  will  never  change ! 
You  are  a  sea-god,  not  a  man,  I  think, 
So  bronzed  and  sinewed,  so  unruled  and  fierce 


SAPPHO    IN    LEU  CADI  A  121 

And  jealous  of  your  strength,  so  made  to  crush 
And  hold  and  battle  for  the  thing  you  love  ! 
Oh,  is  it  true  that  Aphrodite  leaned 
Across  your  oar,  that  night  in  Mysia, 
And  gave  you  of  her  ointment  whereby  Youth 
And  Strength  and  Courage  should  be  ever  yours  ? 
Are  you  more  beautiful  than  other  men, 
Or  do  I  dream  these  god-like  graces  round 
About  your  wilful  body? 

Phaon 

Beautiful 
You  are,  so  beautiful  must  ever  be 
Your  dreams ;  the  thoughts  in  your  own  heart 
Are  hallowed  with  its  spirit,  as  the  Sea 
Leaves  brighter  color  on  the  stones  it  laves ! 

Sappho 

Yet  men  whose  years  are  spent  upon  the  Sea 
Inconstant  live !  They  know  as  many  loves 
As  lands !     O  Phaon,  love  but  me,  but  me ! 

Phaon 

One  land  alone,  the  gods  have  now  decreed, 
And  but  one  woman !     Lesbos  is  the  land, 
And  you,  you,  you,  the  woman,  that  I  love ! 


122  SAPPHO    IN    LEU  CAD  I A 

Sappho  and  Lesbos  —  they  shall  ever  seem 
The  only  music  made  by  lonely  waves 
Sounding  on  lonely  shores ! 

Sappho 

I  am  afraid, 
Sometimes  I  am  still  half  afraid  of  joy 
So  great  as  this.     Why  should  I  be  content 
Without  Erinna,  Atthis,  Megara, 
And  all  my  singing  children  ?  .  .  .  And  you  say 
Unhappy  lovers  come  to  this  same  cliff 
And  leap  into  the  Sea? 

Phaon 

And  if  they  live 
The  fires  of  love  are  quenched,  'tis  held;   no  more 
They  sigh  and  wait,  no  more  their  bodies  burn  .  -.  . 

Sappho  {peering  across  the  cliff,  with  musing  and  mournful 

eyes) 

And  if  they  die  they  wait  and  weep  no  more ! 

O  Phaon,  why  should  we  be  talking  here 

Of  tears  and  sorrow !     They  seem  out  of  tune 

With  languorous  nights  like  this  and  love  like  ours ! 

For  I  am  happy,  Phaon  ...  All  the  world 

Seems  over-run  with  rapture,  as  with  wine. 

It  makes  me  look  and  wonder,  leaves  me  thrilled 


SAPPHO    IN    LEU  CADI  A  1 23 

With  wordless  yearnings,  with  some  vague  content 
That  seems  too  god-like  in  its  unconcern, 
Too  rare,  too  exquisite,  for  earthly  hearts ! 

She  turns  from  the  Sea  to  the  Temple  and  the  higher 
slope  oj  the  cliff. 


Xow  Happiness  and  Leucate  shall  mean 
The  same  to  me.     Xow  all  that  life  may  bring 
Must  seem  a  broken  shadow  of  this  month, 
This  lotos-month  of  Love,  this  last  soft  night 
Of  silence  and  of  moonlight  and  of  You ! 

She  pauses  and  stirs  and  sighs,  tremulously. 

What  have  you  done  to  me !     I  live  in  dreams 
Yet  walk  in  light.     I  ache  and  burn  with  bliss. 
I  could  reach  out  my  arms  to  all  the  world 
And  take  it  to  my  breast  and  sing  to  it,  — 
Yes.  sing  with  music  that  would  make  it  young 
And  leave  it  glad,  as  in  its  Golden  Age; 
Sing  as  the  Sea  has  known  no  throat  to  sing, 
Sing,  sing  as  Night  has  heard  no  lover  sing ! 

Phaon 

But  since  you  came  from  Lesbos  there  has  been 

Xo  music ! 


124  SAPPHO    IN    LEU  CAD  I A 

Sappho 

No ;   nor  need  of  music  here ! 
For  lips  that  press  on  lips  can  ne'er  lament, 
And  song,  Alcaeus  says,  is  born  of  grief. 
You,  you  it  was  that  made  the  throbbing  lyres 
All  vain  and  empty  seem,  you,  you  it  was 
That  stilled  the  singing  voices,  that  dusk  hour 
Amid  the  tangled  mastic,  when  you  bore 
Me  up  the  cliffs  in  your  bronzed  arms  and  kissed 
Me  on  the  mouth,  and  taught  me  that  our  mad, 
Glad,  careless  youth  was  lost,  and  left  our  world 
A  world  of  moving  shadows  and  of  dream, 
And  made  me  love  you  as  I  love  you  now  — 
O  Phaon,  tell  me  you  will  never  change ! 

Phaon 

See,  slow  of  speech  I  am,  as  all  men  are 
Who  fare  upon  the  ocean  and  have  known 
Its  loneliness !    I  scarce  can  say  the  words 
That  seem  to  die  upon  my  lips,  and  yet 
You  know  I  love  you  —  love  you  ! 

Sappho  (rapturously) 

Breathe  those  words 
A  thousand  times,  and  still  some  music  new 
Shall  throb  and  murmur  through  each  uttering ! 


SAPPHO    IN    LEU  CADI  A  125 

Yes;   yes;   I  know  how  at  our  feeble  lips 

The  words  e'er  beat  and  nutter  and  fall  back, 

The  wings  of  love  are  held  like  prisoners ! 

If  mortals  all  were  lovers  there  should  be 

Xo  music  and  no  need  of  music  here ! 

That  much  this  honeyed  month  with  you,  my  own, 

Has  taught  me ! 

Phaon 

Have  you  never  dreamed  of  home 
And  Lesbos? 

Sappho 

Only  of  those  days  when  you 
And  I  were  happy  there  —  those  golden  days 
Down  by  the  sea,  those  idle  afternoons 
When  you  and  I  and  all  the  world  were  young, 
And  from  the  sands  we  watched  the  opal  sails 
And  waded  out  into  the  pale  green  waves, 
Wet  to  our  golden  knees.     Then  you  would  stoop 
And  lift  me  to  the  wave-worn  galley  deck, 
Lapped  by  the  tremulous  low  Lesbian  surf. 
And  then  when  evening  came,  back  through  green 

waves 
We  plunged  and  swam  with  laughter,  side  by  side ! 

Phaon 

You  seemed  more  water-nymph  than  woman,  more 
A  child  of  Cyprian  foam  than  mortal  flesh ! 


126  SAPPHO    IN   LEU  CADI  A 

Sappho 

And  often,  when  you  pointed  out  the  path 

Your  outbound  sail  would  take,  to  Leucate, 

Past  Chios  and  Nakaria,  on  and  on, 

Past  Myconos  and  Xaxos,  cleaving  west 

Through  all  the  flashing  Cyclades,  and  on 

Still  westward,  on  past  Creta  low  and  dim 

Along  the  southern  skyline,  and  still  on 

Past  thunderous  Malea,  beating  up 

The  blue  Ionian,  on,  until  you  saw 

The  tall  Leucadian  cliffs  so  white  and  calm 

Above  the  azure  water  —  then  I  thought 

You  were  indeed  a  god,  of  wind  and  storm, 

With  all  your  sea-bronze  and  your  fearless  eyes. 

Round  you  a  wonder  fell,  the  wonder  of 

Dark  shores  I  knew  not  of,  and  day  by  day 

I  watched  for  your  return,  and  vaguely  mourned 

Each  wind  and  tide  that  carried  you  away ! 

Yes,  like  a  god  you  seemed  in  that  glad  youth 

Of  dreamy  hours  and  languorous  afternoons 

When  close  beside  the  murmuring  sea  we  walked. 

Then  all  the  odorous  summer  ocean  seemed 

A  pale  green  field  where  foam  one  moment  flowered 

Along  the  shallows  and  the  golden  bars, 

And  then  was  gone,  and  ever  came  again  — 

A  thousand  blossom-burdened  Springs  in  one. 

A  god  you  seemed  to  me,  and  I  was  more 

Than  happy,  and  at  little  things  we  laughed ! 


SAPPHO    IN    LEU  CAD  I A  127 

Phaon 

And  how  we  plunged  and  splashed  deep  in  the  cool 
Green  waves  —  like  Tethys  and  Oceanus, 
You  said  it  was,  upon  the  uttermost 
Last  golden  rampart  of  the  world ! 

Sappho  (still  musingly) 

Yes  .  .  .  yes  .  .  . 
Then  would  we  rest,  and  muse  upon  the  sands, 
Heavy  with  dreams,  and  touched  with  some  sad  peace 
Born  of  our  very  weariness  of  joy, 
While  drooped  the  wind  and  all  the  sea  grew  still, 
And  unremembered  trailed  the  idle  oar, 
And  no  leaf  moved,  and  hushed  were  all  the  birds, 
And  on  the  shoals  the  soft  low  ripples  lisped 
Themselves  to  sleep,  and  sails  swung  dreamily, 
And  the  azure  islands  floated  on  the  air! 

Phaon 
Was't  years  ago,  or  only  yesterday? 

Sappho 

Then  all  your  body  seemed  a  temple  white 
To  me,  and  I  a  seeker  who  could  find 
No  god  beyond  the  marble,  no  soft  voice 


128  SAPPHO    IN    LEU  CADI  A 

Beyond  the  canxn  silence  —  yet  I  kneeled 

And  asked  no  more,  and  knew  that  I  must  love ! 

The  bloom  of  youth  was  on  your  sunburnt  cheek, 

The  streams  of  life  sang  through  your  violet  veins, 

The  midnight  velvet  of  your  tangled  hair 

Lured  like  a  cooling  rill  my  passionate  hands. 

The  muscles  ran  and  rippled  on  your  back 

Like  wind  on  evening  waters,  and  your  arm 

Seemed  one  to  cherish,  or  as  sweetly  crush. 

The  odor  of  your  body  sinuous 

And  saturate  with  sun  and  sea-air  was 

As  Lesbian  wine  to  me,  and  all  your  voice 

A  pain  that  took  me  back  to  times  unknown. 

And  when  you  swam  bare-shouldered  out  to  sea, 

Then,  then  the  ephemeral  glory  of  the  flesh, 

The  mystic  sad  bewilderment  of  warmth 

And  life  amid  the  coldness  of  its  world 

Was  like  a  temple  with  the  god  restored. 

It  seemed  so  pitiful,  so  fragile  there, 

Poised  like  a  sea-bird  on  some  tumbling  crest, 

Calling  so  faintly  back  across  the  storm, 

That  one  must  love  it  as  a  tender  flower, 

That  one  must  guard  it  as  a  little  child. 

It  must  have  been  some  spirit  of  the  Sea 

Crept  through  our  veins  in  those  long  afternoons, 

For  wave  by  wistful  wave  strange  moods  and  dreams 

Stole  over  us  —  and  then  you  turned  and  kissed 

Me  on  the  mouth ! 


SAPPHO    IN    LEUCADIA  129 

Phaon  (bending  over  her) 

...  As  I  must  ever  do  — 
But  listen  where  some  restless  woman  sings  I 

Out  of  the  gloom,  softened  by  distance,  sounds  the  voice 
of  a  woman,  singing  to  a  cithara.  The  two  figures 
on  the  cliff  are  poised  motionless,  listening,  and 
slowly  a  drifting  cloud  dims  the  clear  blue-white 
light  of  the  full  moon. 

The  Voice  sings 

When  you  lie  in  dewy  sleep, 

And  the  night  is  dark  and  still, 
O  that  Voice  which  seems  to  creep 

From  beyond  some  barrier  hill ! 

O  that  sound,  not  wind  or  sea, 
From  no  bird  or  woodland  blown, 

Bearing  you  away  from  me, 

Crying  "  One  shall  go  alone !  "  — 

Like  a  ghost  that  will  not  rest, 

Calling,  calling  us  apart, 
Where  you  dream,  Love,  on  my  breast, 

Where  you  breathe  close  on  my  heart ! 

O  that  Cry,  so  far  and  lone, 

Mourning  as  the  night  grows  old, 


130  SAPPHO    IN   LEUCADIA 

For  the  tears  as  yet  unknown, 
For  the  parting  still  untold ! 

Then  for  nights  you  know  not  of, 

You  who  lie  so  near  in  sleep  — 
Long  I  watch  beside  you,  Love, 

Long  and  bitterly  I  weep ! 

Phaon  (repeating  the  words) 

Long  I  watch  beside  you,  Love, 
Long  and  bitterly  I  weep ! 
But  yours  this  music  is  —  it  is  the  song 
CaUed  "  Sleep  and  Love !  " 

Sappho 

I  was  a  dreaming  girl 
When  first  I  wove  the  fancy  into  words  — 
I  scarcely  knew  the  meaning  of  the  mood 
I  toyed  so  lightly  with ! 

Phaon 

To  me  it  seems 
Too  mournful. 

The  night  has  been  slowly  turning  darker.  They  stand 
outlined  against  the  distant  sea,  still  silver-white 
with  the  moon.  A  sense  of  awe  creeps  into  their 
voices  as  they  speak. 


SAPPHO    IN    LEU  CADI  A  131 

Sappho 

Yes,  to-night  it  casts  a  chill 
Across  my  spirit.     It  thrusts  upon  my-  heart 
The  weight  of  all  the  tears  that  eyes  have  wept 
Because  of  love,  since  first  the  world  began. 
Felt  you  my  body  shiver  ?     And  a  cloud 
Has  crept  across  the  moon  !     What  makes  the  night 
Seem  passion-worn  and  old  and  touched  with  calm, 
So  suddenly? 

Phaon 

'Tis  nothing  but  a  cloud 
Across  the  moon's  face. 

The  liquid  notes  of  a  nightingale  float  through  the  night. 
Sappho  starts  up,  raptly,  listening  to  the  bird. 

Sappho 

Listen.  .  .  .  Like  the  plash 
Of  water  turned  to  music  still  it  sounds ! 
A  nightingale  !     It  is  a  nightingale  — 
To  swear  the  world  is  young  again,  and  love 
Shall  live  forever.     Oh,  my  Phaon,  come 
And  creep  a  little  closer,  while  it  sings ! 

She  moves  slowly  in  the  direction  of  the  sound,  Phaon 
still  clinging  indolently  to  her  hand  as  she  draws 
away. 


132  SAPPHO    IN   LEUCADIA 

Phaon 

'Twill  only  lure  you  on,  and  creep  away 
Between  the  leaves,  and  seem  an  empty  Voice 
Along  the  echoing  hillside. 

Sappho 
Come,  oh,  come ! 

She  goes  slowly,  with  intent  and  upturned  face,  walking 
heedless  towards  the  sound  as  Phaon  speaks  again. 
It  grows  still  darker,  and  the  figures  seem  almost 
ghostly  in  the  half-light. 

Phaon 

Then  I  must  burn  a  signal  to  my  men, 
For  I  see  lights  on  shore,  new  lights  at  sea, 
And  torches  moving  by  the  outer  cliff. 

He  twists  three  handfuls  of  dried  grass  loosely  together,  and 
three  times  burns  a  signal  from  the  cliff-edge,  lighting 
his  beacon  on  the  smouldering  urn-fire  at  the  atlar. 
The  drifting  flame  lights  up  his  bronzed  face  and 
figure.  As  he  stands  there,  peering  out  for  an  answer- 
ing signal,  Inarchus  and  a  group  of  armed  hoplites 
enter  from  the  rear.  The  men  carry  flaring  torches. 
Their  armor  sounds  noisily  through  the  quietness, 


SAPPHO    IN    LEUCADIA  133 

and   Phaon   wheels   about   with    resentment,    eyeing 
the  intruders  almost  angrily,  but  otherwise  unmoved. 

Inarchus  {with  the  gruff,  deep-chested  voice  0}  a  grizzled 
veteran,  blujj,  matter-of-fact,  authoritative) 

You,  there  —  what  man  are  you  ? 

Pfiaon 

First  tell  me  then 
What  fish  are  you? 

Inarchus 
Men,  hold  your  torches  close ! 

They  swing  about,  circling  Phaon  with  light.  He 
starts  back  in  anger  as  the  smoking  torches  flare  in 
his  face. 

Phaon 

Stand  back !    Stand  back  there  with  your  stinking  brands, 
Or  by  the  gods,  you  go  across  this  cliff, 
And  drink  a  tierce  of  brine  ! 

The  men  jail  back  a  little,  but  Inarchus  remains  unmoved. 

What  seek  you  here? 


134  SAPPHO    IN    LEU  CAD  I A 

Inarchus 
Is  your  name  Phaon? 

Phaon 
Phaon  once  it  was ! 

The  hoplites  remain  motionless,  while  Inarchus  bends 
over  a  scroll  of  parchment,  under  one  of  the  torches. 

Inarchus 

Phaon,  of  Chios  born,  but  many  years 
Of  Lesbos,  once  a  ferry-man  to  Mysia, 
And  now  the  master  of  a  ship  that  plies 
From  Lemnos  down  to  Cyprus,  and  still  out 
As  far  as  Sicily,  and  north  at  times  as  far 
As  Leucate? 

Phaon 

I  am  that  selfsame  man. 

Inarchus 

Ho,  Lesbians,  stand  close  !  .  .  .  Then  you  are  charged 
Of  seizing  and  of  taking  off,  by  force, 
To  sea  with  you  the  girl  Omaphale, 
Daughter  of  Rhodopus  of  Pharos,  born 
A  free-man  .  .  . 


SAPPHO    IN    LEU CAD  I A  135 

Phaon 

Stop!     Who  makes  this  chaTge? 

Inarchus  {ignoring  his  query) 

.  .  .  The  girl 

Thus  seized,  abducted,  and  betrayed,  was  held 
Against  her  will  .  .  . 

Phaon 

What  woman  need  I  hold 
Against  her  will  ? 

Inarchus 

.  .  .  And  on  your  ship  was  forced 
To  suffer  .  .  . 

Phaon  (his  quick  anger  now  aroused) 

Stop  !   Enough  !   This  woman  came 
Unforced  and  willingly ! 

Inarchus  (cynically) 

This  shall  be  seen. 

Phaon 
Has  she  thus  spoken? 

Inarchus 
She  has  spoken  naught  .  .  . 


136  SAPPHO    IN   ZEUCADIA 

Phaon 
Then  who  confronts  me  with  this  charge? 

Inarchus 

'Twas  laid 
By  one  in  Lesbos. 

Phaon 

Not  the  girl  herself? 

Inarchus 

By  one  who  is  esteemed  of  Pittacus 

Himself,  who  makes  the  woman's  cause  his  own ! 

Phaon 
And  is  this  man  sometimes  Alcaeus  called? 

Inarchus 
Alcaeus,  if  you  will. 

Phaon 

I  thought  as  much ! 

Inarchus 
The  charge  was  laid  .  .  . 


SAPPHO    IN    LEUCADIA  137 

Phaon  (passionately) 

...  By  one  who  learned  to  fawn 
Round  Tyrants  that  have  taught  him  not  to  snarl ; 
By  one  who  strums  on  harps  and  boasts  how  calm 
And  water-cool  his  numbers  are,  yet  was 
Lycimnia's,  Clito's,  Stheno's  lover;    by 
The  priest  of  half-way  passion,  who  is  hot 
And  cold  by  turns ;  by  him  who  struts  and  mouths 
Of  closet  intrigues  up  and  down  the  streets 
Of  Mytilene ! 

Inarchus 

Cease  !   For  Justice  mouths 
Still  up  and  down  the  streets  of  Mytilene ! 
Sir,  I  am  of  the  guard  of  Pittacus. 
To  him  three  witnesses  have  duly  sworn 
You  carried  off  this  girl,  while  mad  with  wine  .  .  . 

Pliaon 
They  lie,  each  one  of  them ! 

hwrdius 

.  .  .  While  mad  with  wine, 
You  seized  and  took  this  girl,  the  sister  of 
Scylax,  the  youth  Alcaeus  schools  in  song. 
Hence,  by  the  new  decree  of  Pittacus, 
Who  stands  behind  Alcaeus  that  the  law 


138  SAPPHO    IN   LEU  CAD  I A 

May  be  upheld,  all  crime  in  drunkenness 
Enacted  shall  be  met  by  punishment 
Two-fold ! 

Phaon 

A  blow  for  wine,  and  then  a  blow, 
I  take  it,  for  the  fall  the  wine  compelled ! 
And  so  Alcaeus  thus  resents  the  hand 
That  holds  what  ne'er  was  his  .  .  .  and  so  he  fights ! 

Inarchus 

He  stands  within  the  law,  my  hot-eyed  youth ! 
He  knows  his  ground,  and  he  in  Lesbos  said 
You  should  be  branded  like  a  slave  re-caught, 
Ay,  dragged  back  unto  Justice  by  the  hair ! 

Phaon* s  quick  southern  blood  is  now  on  fire,  and  he 
snatches  out  the  short-bladed  Lesbian  sword  that 
hangs  at  his  waist.     He  turns  on  them. 

Phaon 

Enough  of  this !     Who  drags  me  by  the  hair  ? 
Who  brands  me  like  a  slave?    You  lead  these  men, 
You  seem  to  be  the  mouth-piece  of  this  king 
In  Lesbos  who  ordains  how  men  shall  love 
And  shall  not  love !     I  say  this  woman  came 
To  me  of  her  free  will.     And  you  have  said 


SAPPHO    IN    LEUCADIA 


139 


That  like  a  street- cur  with  a  bone,  I  caught 
And  seized  and  carried  her  away !     You  stand 
And  cry  such  things !     Great  gods,  no  breathing  man 
Speaks  words  like  this  to  me  —  you  hireling  dog 
Of  harlot-mongers,  we  shall  fight  this  out ! 

Inarch  us 

I  do  not  fight  with  brawlers  of  the  sea, 
With  every  cut-throat  who  has  smelt  of  pitch 
And  carried  off  a  woman ! 

Phaon 

Mark  you  this: 
Here  stands  a  hawser-puller  you  shall  fight ! 
Here  stands  an  anchor-scraper  who  will  make 
You  eat  your  liar's  oaths,  or  die  of  it ! 

Inarchus  (who  now  holds  himself  in  with  a  visible  effort) 
No,  I  am  here  the  servant  of  the  Law  ,  .  . 

Phaon 

Then  say  this  woman  was  not  seized  by  me, 
Or  Law  and  you  are  liars ! 

Inarchus 

What  you  seized 
Or  left  unseized,  is  not  for  me  to  say ! 


140  SAPPHO    IN    LEUCADIA 

Phaon 

And  there  again  you  lie.  .  .  .  You  could  have  sought 
This  woman  out,  and  from  her  mouth  have  learned 
The  truth  itself.     Instead  of  that  you  take 
The  pay  of  slanderers,  and  nose  through  mire 
For  money ! 

Inarchus 

Check  this  passion,  or  by  all 
The  gods  of  war,  your  tongue  shall  taste  my  steel! 

Phaon 

I  feed  on  steel  when  cowards  such  as  you 
Hold  forth  a  platter !     Come  !   I  love  to  spit 
Fat-legged  defamers,  pompous  cavillers, 
Red-nosed  deriders  .  .  . 

Inarchus  (beyond  control  now) 

Stop;   we  two  shall  fight; 
We  two  shall  fight,  you  Fury  of  the  Deep, 
You  tunny  spiced  with  brine  !     Come ;   we  shall  fight ! 

Inarchus  discards  his  heavy  metal  shield,  and  flings 
down  his  spear,  keeping  only  his  short-bladed  Grecian 
sword.  The  torch-bearers  fall  back  and  range  them- 
selves in  a  wider  but  regular  circle  about  the  two  com- 
batants. Inarchus  faces  the  infuriated  Phaon  with  the 
contemptuous  pity  of  a  seasoned  soldier  for  an  unequal 


SAPPHO    IN    LEUCADIA  141 

foe,  with  the  forbearance  oj  a  misunderstood  man 
forced  into  an  v.ndesired  fight.  Then  the  momentary 
silence  is  broken  by  the  zvice  of  Sappho,  sounding 
clear,  mellow,  unexpected,  out  of  the  gloom.  It  is 
a  call  that  is  rich  and  low,  alluring  and  warm.  As 
Phaon  hears  it  he  remembers.  A  change  creeps 
over  him;  lie  awakens,  as  from  a  dream,  and  uncon- 
sciously draws  back.  Then  his  arm  slowly  falls, 
down  to  his  side. 

Sappho 

My  Phaon,  are  you  coming?    I  have  found 
The  thicket,  and  the  nightingale  has  sung 
Of  love,  love,  love  to  me,  until  my  arms 
Are  aching  for  you?     Are  you  coming  soon? 

Phaon 
Her  voice?     {Inarchus  wheels  about  in  amazement) 

Inarchus 

What  girl  is  this  that  floats  between 
The  trees? 

Phaon 

It  must  not  be  !   Xo,  no ;   not  now ! 

Inarchus 

Who  is  this  virgin  lost  in  th'  moonlight  there?  — 
How  many  women  woo  you,  in  the  year? 


142  SAPPHO    IN    LEUCADIA 

Phaon 

She  must  not  know !     This  can  not  be  to-night! 
It  must  not  be ! 

Inarchus 

How  now?    What  must  not  be? 

Phaon 
I  was  a  fool  ...  I  cannot  fight  with  you ! 
Inarchus 

0  gods  of  war,  what  weather-cocks  we  are  S  — 
This  fight  you  hungered  for,  and  you  shall  have  I 

Phaon 

No;  I  was  blind;  I  must  not,  can  not,  fight! 
Oh,  more  in  this  there  is  than  you  can  know; 
Yet  listen,  for  beneath  the  gods  I  speak 
The  utter  truth !     If  I  have  done  aught  wrong 

1  shall  still  answer  for  it.     But  this  girl 
Omaphale,  of  her  own  choosing,  made 

My  ship  her  home  till  one  short  journey's  end ! 
It  was  a  youthful  folly,  and  naught  else, 
A  wildness  of  the  blood,  a  weakness  shown 
And  set  aright.     A  coast  girl  she  had  been, 
And  swam  out  like  a  nereid  to  my  prow 
When  we  were  in  the  harbor.     She  would  sit 


SAPPHO    IN    LEUCADIA  143 

Upon  the  galley's  thwart  and  shyly  laugh 

And  talk  with  me.     She  month  by  month  would  watch 

For  my  return.     Then  one  day  when  we  sat 

Alone  upon  the  deck,  and  her  dark  hair 

Fell  loose  about  her,  drying  in  the  sun, 

A  silence  crept  upon  us,  and  her  face 

Went  suddenly  white  and  she  cried  out  to  me: 

"  Oh,  I  would  go  with  you  unto  the  ends 

Of  all  the  world !  "    And  when  I  wakened  she 

Lay  weeping  there  upon  my  arm ! 

Inarchus 

And  so? 

Sappho  (from  without) 
Are  you  not  coming,  Phaon? 

Phaon 

Coming  —  yes. 

Inarchus 

When  you,  good  youth,  have  passed  a  further  word 
Or  two  with  me ! 

Phaon 
Then  quick,  what  would  you  hear? 


144  SAPPHO    IN   LEUCADIA 

Inarchus 

Put  up  your  sword !  ...  I  am  the  instrument 
And  not  the  State  you  answer  to.     These  things 
Must  still  be  told  to  them  who  know  the  Law  . 


They  shall  be  told  .  .  . 


So  late,  my  Phaon? 


Phaon 

Sappho 

What  keeps  you  waiting  there 

Phaon 


'Tis  a  crying  ewe 
Strayed  from  its  flock !     Quick,  closer  here.     My  ship 
Lies  yonder  in  the  bay.     At  dawn  we  sail 
For  Lesbos.     There  I  pledge  to  meet  this  charge 
And  show  it  false. 

Inarchus  (impatiently) 
How  will  you  show  it  false? 

Phaon 

By  bringing  my  accusers  and  this  girl 
Together,  face  to  face.     If  she  then  says 
That  I  compelled  her  into  crime,  I  stand 
Prepared  for  punishment.     Alcaeus  then 


SAPPHO    IN    LEUCADIA  145 

Can  be  disposed  of  one  who  crossed  his  path 
More  times  than  once.  .  .  .  Nay,  send  these  very  men 
Aboard  my  ship,  to  guard  the  homeward  course  — 
But  as  you  are  a  man  of  justice,  breathe 
Xo  word  of  this  mad  charge  to  .  .  . 

{Sappho  has  entered  while  he  speaks,  and  stands  before 
the  group,  for  a  moment  perplexed.  Then  she 
holds  torch  after  torch  to  the  immobile  faces  of  the 
hoplites,  still  puzzled) 


Sappho 
Are  these? 


But  what  men 


Phaon 
Fresh  seamen,  for  the  ship,  I  signalled  for. 

Sappho 

Their  faces  all  look  strange.     I  thought  I  knew 

Each  man  among  them,  all  who  used  to  sing 

On  deck  with  me  the  Sailors'  Song  to  Dusk ! 

They  all  look  hard  and  cold.  .  .  .  And  this  great  cliff 

Is  but  the  rampart  from  which  cruel  Love 

Thrusts  out  its  lost,  as  from  the  frowning  walls 

Of  War  the  dead  are  flung  ! 

She  shudders  and  shrinks  away,  then  starts,  looks  upward, 
and  motions,  almost  imperiously,  for  the  silent  Phaon. 


146  SAPPHO    IN   LEUCADIA 

But  hark;   there  flutes 
And  calls  the  nightingale  again.  ...  So  come.  .  .  . 
This  is  our  last  night,  Love,  on  Leucate ! 

She  links  her  arm  in  Phaon's,  and  they  stand  listening, 
with  uplifted  faces  swept  by  the  clear,  blue-white 
moonlight  breaking  through  soft  cloud-rifts.  The 
foot-soldiers  stand  motionless,  their  torches  flaring. 

Curtain 


SAPPHO    IN   LEU  CAD  I A  147 


ACT    TWO 

An  almond  and  olive  grove  above  the  JEgean  Sea,  near 
Mytilene,  two  weeks  later.  In  the  foreground  is 
an  open  space,  soft  with  turf,  shadowed  on  the  right 
by  a  row  of  cypresses,  through  which  the  pale  marble 
of  a  headland  Pharos  towers  and  glimmers.  On 
the  left  stretches  the  calm  turquoise  of  the  water. 
Violets  can  be  seen  thick  along  the  cliff -edge,  and 
flowers  in  profusion  add  to  the  coloring  of  the  tropical 
background.  It  is  late  afternoon  as  the  curtain 
goes  up,  and  Alcaeus  is  discovered  striding  back  and 
forth,  lean  and  pale  and  impatient.  A  moment 
later  Omaphale  creeps  in,  looks  about,  and  turns  to 
Alcaeus  with  what  is  half  a  sob  and  half  a  gasp  of 
disappointment.  She  is  a  slender,  white-faced  young 
girl  with  tragic  and  haunted  eyes. 


Omaphale 
He  is  not  here? 

Alcaeus 

Did  Zetes  of  the  Guard 
Give  you  the  message  ? 


148  SAPPHO    IN   LEUCADIA 

Omaphale  (still  peering  about) 

Yes.  ...  He  is  not  here ! 

Alcaeus 

Then  what  we  two  would  speak  of  must  be  held 
In  secrecy. 

Omaphale 

I  know  .  .  .  But  where  is  he? 
You  promised  that  my  Phaon  would  be  here ! 

Alcaeus 
Your  Phaon  !     Girl,  when  was  this  Phaon  yours  ? 

Omaphale 


I  loved  him,  sir 


Alcaeus 


She  loved  him  !     So,  indeed, 
Have  other  women  done,  and  little  good 
E'er  came  of  it.     If  this  man  could  be  torn 
To  pieces  as  Actaeon,  or  as  Pentheus  was, 
And  parcelled  out  to  them  he  claimed  to  love, 
Still  would  there  be  some  woman  unpossessed 
Of  this  capricious  eel,  this  ferry-man 
That  swims  in  amorous  tears ! 


SAPPHO    IN    LEUCADIA  149 

Omaphale 

But  you  have  said 
That  you  would  bring  him  back  to  me ! 

Alcaeus 

I  said 
That  if  you  acted  as  I  may  ordain 
Your  lover  should  once  more  be  brought  to  you. 

Omaphale 
What  is  it  I  must  do? 

Alcaeus 

If  still  you  wish 
To  wed  this  Phaon,  'tis  within  the  power 
Of  Pittacus  to  make  you  man  and  wife  — 
If  such  you  ask. 

Omaphale 

What  must  I  do? 

Alcaeus 

You  wish 
To  make  him  yours,  to  see  him  bound  to  you? 

Omaphale 

I  care  not  if  he  weds  me,  or  he  comes 
And  takes  me  quite  unwed  ...  if  only  he 
Will  love  me ! 


150  SAPPHO    IN    LEU  CADI  A 

Alcaeus 

Yet  if  wedded  to  this  man 
You  still  may  hold  him,  and  you  will  be  his 
Through  every  change  of  heart,  and  he  must  house 
And  clothe  and  feed  you,  as  the  law  commands. 

Omaphale 

As  he  may  house  and  feed  a  hungry  dog, 
And  love  it  not !     I  care  not  for  the  law  — 
If  he  will  love  me,  that  is  all  I  ask. 

Alcaeus 

You  harp  on  love  as  though  it  were  the  last 
And  only  thing  in  life ! 

Omaphale 

It  is  —  to  me ! 

Alcaeus  (aside) 

It  was  —  to  me.     But  I  am  wiser  now. 
Come  closer  while  I  speak  —  it  must  be  brief. 
If  still  you  love  this  man  you  shall  be  made 
His  wife.     To-night  in  Mytilene  meets 
The  Assembly,  and  its  Council  can  decree 
That  Phaon  marry  you,  if  you  but  swear 
That  having  lured  you  from  your  father's  home, 
By  force  he  took  you  off  to  sea,  and  there  .  .  . 


SAPPHO    IN    LEU  CAD  I A  1 5 

Omaphale 
This  is  not  true ! 

Alcaeus 

But  truth  it  must  be  made ! 

Omaphale 

No,  no ;  I  went  of  my  own  will ! 

Alcaeus 

Then  weak 
You  were,  and  foolish ! 

Omaphale  (softly) 

Yes  ...  but  happy,  too ! 

Alcaeus 
Why  were  you  happy? 

Omaphale 

Was  I  not  with  him? 

Alcaeus 

Then  do  as  I  have  said,  and  you  may  be 

Once  more  with  him,     Swear  that,  against  your  will 

He  took  you  out  to  sea  —  and  in  one  day 

All  Lesbos  will  acclaim  you  as  his  wife ! 


152  SAPPHO    IN   LEU  CAD  I A 

Omaphale 

And  him  —  what  will  I  be  to  him  ?    These  words 
Are  not  the  truth !     Why  should  I  seek  to  hold 
His  love  by  lies? 

Alcaeus 

You  knew,  and  lost,  his  love  — 
That  is  the  final  truth  we  two  must  face. 
But  still  the  man  himself  comes  back  to  you 
If  you  but  raise  a  finger ! 

Omaphale 

Lost  his  love? 

Alcaeus 

Then  you  can  keep  him  close ;   then  you  can  guard 
His  coming  and  his  going,  and  ward  off 
Another  woman's  witcheries ! 

Omaphale  (wanly) 

Ward  off 
Another  woman's  witcheries !  .  .  .  You  mean 
He  loves  some  other  woman  now? 

Alcaeus 

He  loves 
Another  woman. 


SAPPHO    IN    LEUCADIA  153 

Omaphale 

All  ...  all  these  long  months  — 
Was  she  with  him  for  all  these  endless  months? 

Alcaeus 
They  were  together ! 

Omaphale  (bewildered) 
And  I  lost  his  love ! 

Alcaeus  (bitterly) 

Then  say  the  word,  and  tear  him  from  her  arms, 
And  teach  him  what  it  is  to  feel  the  teeth 
Of  hunger  in  his  heart,  to  know  the  ache 
Of  empty  nights,  the  dragging  days  of  pain 
More  desolate  than  any  Hell,  the  years 
Embittered,  ay,  the  broken  life  that  crawls 
And  whines  for  death  ! 

Omaphale 
You  hate  this  man! 

Alcaeus  (remembering  himself,  and  reining  in  his  fury) 

I  hold  him  one  who  should  be  envied  more 
Than  Pittacus  himself  ...  I  hate  him  not. 


154  SAPPHO    IN   LEU  CAD  I A 

Omaphale 
From  you  he  took  this  woman  —  Hwas  from  you! 

Alcaeus 
Mine  she  had  never  been ! 

Omaphale  {remembering) 
But  now  is  his! 

Alcaeus 

—  Until  you  say  the  word  that  brings  him  back ! 
Some  one  approaches  .  .  .  Quick !   We  must  be  brief. 
Will  you,  before  the  Council,  make  this  charge  ? 

Omaphale 

Would  I  against  him  make  this  charge  ?     No ;   no  ! 
I  cannot !    Oh,  I  cannot !     It  would  mean 
His  empty  body,  his  unanswering  eyes, 
His  sullen  unconcern,  his  growing  hate 
For  me,  his  gaoler,  and  his  greater  love 
For  that  far  happier  woman  still  withheld ! 
'Twould  be  like  creeping  to  the  tomb  of  one 
We  loved  and  lost,  and  gnawing  on  the  bones 
That  once  embraced  us  !     No  ...  It  shall  not  be  ! 


SAPPHO    IN    LEU  CAD  I A  155 

Alcaeus 
The  law  itself  may  act !  ...  if  you  will  not. 

Omaphale 
I  cannot  act  against  the  man  I  love. 

Alcaeus 

Quick,  Pittacus  approaches;   we  must  not 
Be  seen  together.     Turn  and  walk  away 
Between  the  olive-trees,  and  look  not  back 
Until  you  seem  alone.     And  not  a  word 
Of  what  I  said  until  you  meet  me  here 
At  nightfall. 


■©* 


Omaphale  (bewildered  and  broken) 
Phaon  loves  another ! 

Alcaeus 

Quick, 
And  think  upon  these  things,  until  we  meet. 

As  Omaphale  creeps  slowly  and  dispiritedly  away, 
Pittacus  and  Inarchus,  in  full  armor,  enter,  followed 
by  Phocus,  carrying  a  leather)!  wine-sack.  He  is 
fat  and  blowsy,  and  prone  to  drop  off  into  sudden 
sleep.     Alcaeus   greets   the    Tyrant   and   his   Body- 


156  SAPPHO    IN   LEU  CADI  A 

guard,  and  stands  beside  Pittacus.  Both  seem  lean 
and  moody  men  preoccupied  with  their  own  thoughts 
and  ends.  Phocus  settles  himself  beside  a  stunted 
olive-tree  and  slumbers. 


Inarchus 

'Tis  here  between  the  Pharos  and  the  Sea 
These  women  sing ! 

Pittacus 

We  know  they  sing,  but  what  ? 

Inarchus 

By  Pluto's  bones,  'tis  more  than  I  can  say ! 
But  here,  as  you  and  Pittacus  desired, 
I  placed  a  guard,  disguised  as  shepherd-boys; 
And  honest  Phocus  as  a  swine-herd  sat 
Close  by  and  listened,  since  he  has  the  gift 
Of  making  song,  like  good  Alcaeus  here. 

Alcaeus 
Now,  by  Apollo's  harp,  this  is  too  much ! 

Pittacus 
Then  tell  us  what  was  heard. 


SAPPHO    IN   LEU  CADI  A  157 

Inarckus 

In  the  cool  of  early  day 
They  come  with  cithara  and  harp  and  lyre 
.And  plectrum,  with  outlandish  instruments 
Of  string  and  wood,  inlaid  with  ivory. 
And  some  with  gold,  and  squat  between  this  grove 
And  yonder  cypresses. 

Pittacus  {impatiently) 

But  what  was  said 
Between  these  women?     What  songs  were  sung? 

Inarckus 

I  am  a  rough  man,  sir,  a  son  of  War, 
Unschooled  in  twiddling  thumbs  on  things  of  gold 
.And  ivory.     'Twere  best  ask  Phocus  here; 

(He  kicks  Phocus  to  aicaken  him) 
His  trade  is  making  song !     Ho,  Phocus,  wake. 

Phocus 

By  Bacchus,  now,  I  must  have  had  a  wink 
Of  sleep!     (He  yawns  and  stretches,  lazily) 

Inarckus 

Tell  us  what  amorous  breed  o'  song 
Your  swine-herd  ears  were  fed  on  vester-morn ! 


158  SAPPHO    IN    LEUCADIA 

Phocus 

What  breed  o'  song !    Song  fit  for  one  that  was 
In  truth  a  swine-herd !     Sirs,  such  sorry  stuff 
That  I  all  but  foreswore  Euterpe's  cause 
And  turned  to  honest  labor  —  for  this  talk 
Of  Sappho  and  her  school  disgorges  me ! 

Alcaeus  (aside) 
But,  mark  you,  not  of  words ! 

Phocus 

I  could  have  shown 
Your  Lesbos,  ay,  and  Athens,  what  true  song 
And  singing  is,  but  paugh !  they'd  know  it  not ! 
This  world  of  ours  grows  worse,  sirs,  year  by  year, 
And  all  they  take  to  now  is  sham  and  sound ! 

Pittacus  (to  Alcaeus) 
Oh,  muffle  somewhat  these  Mygdonian  pipes ! 

Phocus 

Why,  song's  not  what  I  well  remember  it  — 

There  was  in  Samnos,  when  I  was  a  boy, 

A  lean  old  goat-herd  —  what  a  drunkard,  too  ! 


SAPPHO    IN    LEU  CADI  A  159 

Alcaeus  (to  Pittacus) 
Who  died  of  a  grape  seed  in  the  wind-pipe,  sir ! 

Phocus 

—  Who  strung,  across  a  shark's-jaw  on  a  box 
Of  cedar  dipped  in  beeswax,  rive  short  strings, 
And  twanged  them  with  a  little  brazen  thumb, 
And  made  up  songs  about  the  early  days, 
When  life  was  worth  the  living,  giving  us 
Most  wondrous  music  —  that  I  mind  right  well ! 

Pittacus 

But  we  are  like  all  Greece ;  we  still  would  know 
Of  Sappho's  singing ! 

Phocus 

Sappho's  singing  —  paugh  ! 
The  lady,  mark  you,  sir,  I  much  esteem, 
And  hold  no  quarrel  with  —  'tis  but  this  stuff 
Of  burning  fire  and  brimstone,  and  the  mouth 
Of  black  volcanoes  boiling  up  with  love 
That  scorches  half  of  Lesbos !     I  could  take 
A  syrinx  made  of  willows  and  out-sing 
This  walking  cithara,  if  only  men 
Would  come  and  listen ! 

(He  drinks  and  settles  bach,  as  if  making  ready  to  sleep) 


160  SAPPHO    IN   LEU  CAD  I A 

Alcaeus 
As  we  do,  alas ! 

Pittacus 

Enough  of  this  fat  wine-sack !    Let  me  know 
What  you  have  noted  ! 

Inarchus 

Sir,  as  I  have  said, 
This  Sappho  that  you  bade  me  watch  so  close 
Comes  forth  and  talks  with  them,  all  draped  in  flowers, 
And  schools  them  in  the  mincing  of  big  words 
To  foolish  sounding  music !     What  might  pass 
Between  them  more  I  know  not.     But  'tis  here 
They  come  and  sit  and  brood  above  the  sea, 
Like  mooning  cliff-birds ! 

Pittacus 
Men  and  girls  alike? 

Inarchus 

No;    girls  alone  —  grown  girls  —  fine  amorous-eyed 
Deep-bosomed  women,  who  should  love  and  mate 
With  men  like  me,  and  bear  us  soldiers,  sir, 
To  laugh  at  Solon,  and  have  Lesbos  feared ! 


SAPPHO    IN   LEUCADIA  l6l 

Pittacus 
And  who  shall  fear  an  island  full  of  harps? 

Inarchus 

I  am  a  bluff  man,  sir,  and  what  it  means, 
This  singing  of  white  virgins,  I  know  not ! 
But  when  I  was  a  youth  no  girls  sat  down 
With  girls,  and  strummed  on  wires  of  twisted  gut 

Alcaeus 

Mark  you  his  words !     There  lies  the  only  way 
This  woman  can  be  met  and  overthrown ! 
Since  Athens  crowned  her  for  her  singing  here 
They  wait  upon  her  like  a  goddess ! 


Pittacus 

True! 
And  for  a  crown  of  olive !     Yesterday 
My  chariot-wheels  rang  through  deserted  streets 
And  not  a  slave-girl  watched  me  as  I  went. 
But  on  the  wharves  all  Mytilene  cheered; 
The  harbor  rocked  with  roses,  and  the  ships 
Lay  smothered  under  blossoms,  and  a  barge 
Of  myrtle-branches  and  shrill-singing  girls 
Went  from  the  Western  Quay,  and  boys  swam  out 


162  SAPPHO    IN   LEUCADIA 

Beyond  the  Second  Bar  —  all,  all  to  meet 
Her  sail  —  the  sail  of  Sappho  coming  back 
To  Lesbos ! 

Alcaeus 

Yet  you  always  scoffed  at  Song ! 

Pittacus 

And  every  way  she  turned  were  cries  and  tears, 
And  every  street  she  walked  was  paved  with  leaves 
Of  oleander ! 

Alcaeus 

And  you  scoffed  at  Song! 

Pittacus 

I  knew  no  need  of  Song.    I  had  my  work  — 
My  work  that  led  me  on  by  paths  austere 
And  walked  beside  me  with  its  patient  eyes 
And  seemed  forever  mirthless.     Yet  when  life 
Grew  wise  and  hard  and  empty,  and  the  friends 
Of  youth  all  fell  away,  'twas  in  this  friend, 
'Twas  in  this  comrade  with  the  quiet  eyes 
And  solemn  brow,  I  found  my  final  peace. 

Alcaeus 

And  she  will  come  and  overthrow  that  peace 
With  other  friends  —  for  she  is  loved  of  all 
Your  people,  and  she  sways  them  at  a  word ! 


SAPPHO    IN    LEU  CAD  I A  163 

Pittacus 

Ay,  sways  them  as  a  wine-vat  sways  a  mob ! 
Alcaeus 

But  still  she  sways  them !     Should  they  see  her  go 
From  Lesbos,  as  you  threatened,  at  a  word 
The  island  would  take  fire  and  rage  and  sweep 
With  one  unending  "  Down  with  Pittacus 


!  » 


Pittacus 

I  have  scant  fear  of  that !     Much  more  I  fear 

What  this  poor  land  may  fall  to !     Think  of  it 

In  hands  like  Sappho's,  drugged  with  sighs  and  song 

As  well  ask  butterfiies  to  fight  for  us, 

Ask  larks  to  haul  the  iron-rimmed  wheels  of  state ! 

Too  well  I  see  it !     This  shall  be  the  home 

Of  weaklings ;   while  some  sturdier  land  unknown 

To  us  shall  cub  rough-hearted  men  of  war, 

Men  strong  and  ruthless,  ravenous,  uncouth, 

To  sweep  upon  us  with  their  hurrying  hordes 

And  grind  our  gentle  hands  and  golden  harps 

Beneath  barbarian  heels.     Wine,  wine  I  hate, 

And  Sappho  hate  —  and  both  shall  be  put  down ! 

Alcaeus 

You  of  To-morrow  dream :   she  sings  To-day  !  — 
I  thought  and  sang  of  both,  and  neither  won ! 


164  SAPPHO    IN   LEU  CAD  I A 

Pittacus 

Ah,  yes !     This  crown  they  gave  her  —  was  it  not 
Once  offered  you? 

Alcaeus 

I  sang  not  for  the  mob ! 
They  howled  for  love  and  wine  and  rhapsody; 
And  to  the  songs  I  make  must  ever  cling 
Some  touch  of  tears  and  twilight.     It  may  be 
That  I,  like  Phocus  there,  was  born  before 
My  time.     So  when  I  saw  that  I  should  stand 
Against  a  woman,  I  withdrew ! 

Pittacus 

Withdrew, 
And  let  a  Sappho  win !  It  has  been  said 
You  loved  this  woman? 

Alcaeus 

Sir,  she  has  been  loved 
By  many,  and  because  of  that,  perchance, 
She  is  as  hard  to  combat  as  to  win ! 

Pittacus 
I  fear  no  woman ! 

Alcaeus 

Since  you  fought  with  none ! 
Nay,  strike  not  openly,  but  undermine 


SAPPHO    IN   LEUCADIA  165 

In  secrecy  this  wall  that  neither  you 
Nor  I  can  ever  scale. 

Pittacus 

What  mean  you?     Speak! 

Alcaeus 

I  mean  it  has  been  said  this  woman's  wiles 
Are  strange;   she  makes  our  wives  forget  their  homes 
And  voung  girls  who  have  never  loved  awake 
And  cry  for  tender  words,  and  maidens,  too, 
That  kissed  o'er  close,  still  seek  another's  mouth ; 
Half-mad  with  music,  makes  our  women  leave 
Their  waiting  lovers  and  creep  after  her 
With  pleading  eyes,  and  cling  about  her  neck 
And  call  her  beautiful  and  passionate  names ! 
And  all  the  world  has  known  that  all  her  songs 
Are  drenched  in  tumult  and  with  rapture  washed. 

Pittacus 

Nay,  start  me  not  to  storming  on  this  string 
That  I  have  thumbed  so  often !     She  it  is 
Who  leads  my  men  away,  and  plants  their  spears 
In  colonnades,  where  rose  and  meadow-sweet 
May  climb,  and  little  garden-birds  may  chirp ! 
She  is  the  author  of  our  idle  days, 
Our  festivals  of  folly  crowned  with  flowers, 
Our  bacchanalian  midnights  mad  with  wine 


1 66  SAPPHO    IN    LEU  CADI  A 

And  song  and  reeling  dance;   our  lovers  pale 
And  silent  in  the  gloom,  who  neither  laugh 
Nor  move  where  gleam  the  white  of  arms 
And  marbled  throats  and  limbs  voluptuous ! 
Oft  have  I  stumbled  on  this  cyathus 
That  over-runs  with  fire,  and  marked  the  ways 
Of  those  who  follow  her,  the  fearless  laugh, 
The  muffled  stir  of  torches  through  the  leaves, 
The  flight,  denial,  capture,  and  the  faint 
Last  struggles  of  some  lover  lost  in  sighs 
And  swooning  unconcern  —  and  through  it  all 
The  throbbing  of  the  lyres,  the  drone  and  beat 
Of  citharas,  the  broken  woodland  chants, 
The  midnight  sorceries,  where  they  who  weave 
O'er-sweetened  words  to  music  sit  and  dream 
By  drooping  oleanders,  flinging  lust 
And  enervating  passion  out  across 
This  land  of  lovers !     Paugh,  I  hate  it  all ! 

Alcaeus 

Your  people  should  be  told,  then:   "  Here  is  one 
^Tio  would  corrupt  the  rose  of  Lesbian  youth, 
Who  leaves  a  blight  upon  our  homes,  a  taint 
Upon  our  island !  " 

Pittacus 
Yes;  but  to  what  end? 


SAPPHO    IN    LEU  CADI  A  167 

Alcaeus 

That  where  we  idle  wait  the  gods  may  act ! 
The  seed  thus  planted  quietly  shall  grow, 
Shall  spread  suspicion,  and  shall  pave  the  way 
For  grim  uprootings.     When  the  time  is  ripe 
Proclaim  the  woman  for  the  thing  she  is ! 

Phocus 
I  must  have  slept  a  wink,  and  known  it  not ! 

{He  rises  and  quietly  drinks  as  the  sound  of  music  and 
chanting  voices  floats  sojtly  up  from  the  sea  below 
them) 

Pittacus 

Listen,  what  sound  is  that? 

Alcaeus 

It  is  the  song 
All  Lesbos  sings  at  sunset ! 

Pittacus 

All  Lesbos  sings? 

Alcaeus 

The  Sailors'  Hymn  to  Sunset  it  is  called; 
From  every  harbor  where  a  tired  oar  drips, 


1 68  SAPPHO    IN   LEU  CAD  I A 

Or  rope  is  tied,  or  weary  anchor  dropped, 
This  selfsame  music  rises  from  the  sea. 

P hocus  (aside,  muttering) 

That  is  the  wide-mouthed  rubble  that  the  men 
Of  this  mad  Lesbos  take,  and  leave  unsung 
My  Shepherds'  Song  to  She-Goats,  writ  by  me 
In  pure  iLolic,  in  Ionic,  too, 
That  ripples  like  a  rill !     (He  sighs  and  sleeps) 

Pittacus 

"Whence  came  this  song  ? 

Alcaeus 

It  comes  from  Sappho!  Listen;  next  to  that 
They  call  the  Song  For  Lovers,  and  its  mate, 
The  Sailors'  Hymn  to  Sunrise,  'tis  most  sung. 

The  two  men  turn  towards  the  Sea,  listening. 

And  wonderful  it  is !     From  ship  to  ship, 
From  cape  to  misty  cape,  from  wharf  to  wharf, 
From  harbor-town  to  headland  and  still  on 
To  harbor-town  it  rises,  eve  by  eve. 
It  mounts  and  swings  until  a  chain  of  song 
Round  Lesbos  has  been  woven ! 

Phocus  stirs  and  wakens,  rubbing  his  eyes.  Then  he 
shows  that  he  is  listening  to  the  speakers  preoccupied 
on  the  cliff. 


SAPPHO    IX    LEU CADI  A  1 69 

Pittacus 

I  thought  as  much ! 
This  woman  stands  a  menace  and  a  shame  — 
She  must  be  silenced. 

Alcaeus 

Then,  before  I  go, 
Let  me  one  sentence  add :    'Twere  best  to  strike 
At  her  through  Phaon  —  cut  the  cypress  low, 
And  let  the  ivy  wither,  where  it  lies. 
Of  Phaon's  deeds  you  know:   should  he  go  down, 
Her  desperate  love  for  him  would  spell  her  own 
Untimely  ruin.     Let  them  fall  as  one! 

Pittacus 

She  has  her  following,  such  as  it  is ! 

We  must  strike  cautiously.     This  Phaon  boasts 

That  he  has  talked  with  goddesses,  you  say? 

Alcaeus 

He  is  the  man  who  claims  Poseidon  speaks 
With  him  across  his  gunwale.     Still  he  tells 
How  on  a  night  of  storm  and  rain  he  found 
A  woman  muffled  in  a  gloomy  cloak, 
Waiting  without  a  word  beside  his  boat  — 
Who  made  a  sign,  whereat  he  rowed  her  out, 


170  SAPPHO    IN   LEU  CAD  I A 

Against  his  will,  into  the  driving  spray. 
And  all  the  while  her  woman's  dreaming  eyes 
Shone  out  like  stars,  and  through  the  tempest  flashed 
Her  white  face  like  a  flame,  and  filled  his  heart 
With  fear  and  wonder.     And  they  reached  the  land; 
And  she  passed  silently  out  through  the  night, 
And  left  no  sign  or  footprint  on  the  sand; 
And  he  has  claimed  she  was  a  goddess. 


Pittacus  (cynically) 

He 
May  need  her  help ! 

Alcaeus 

We  boast  no  goddesses 
To  fight  for  us,  in  either  love  or  war; 
So  we  must  stand  prepared,  and  wait  our  hour  .  . 

Pittacus 
And  when  the  time  is  ripe  .  .  . 

Alcaeus 

The  gods  may  act 
Where  we  have  been  most  idle.    I  must  go ! 

(Exit) 


SAPPHO    IN    LEUCADIA  171 

Phocus  (peering  blearily  after  Alcaeus) 

Now,  by  the  horn  of  Bacchus,  here  will  be 
Ervngo-root  to  spice  to-morrow's  talk !     (He  laughs) 
But  soft  —  there's  one  as  lean  as  I  am  fat. 

Omaphale  creeps  in,  as  he  speaks.  Her  face  is  color- 
less, her  liair  dishevelled.  She  is  about  to  speak  to 
Pittacus,  but  shrinks  away,  with  a  gesture  oj  fear 
and  despair.  A  look  of  hopelessness  is  on  her  face, 
as  she  advances  toward  the  cliff-edge. 

Pittacus  (wrapt  in  thought,  unconscious  of  Inarch  us 
standing  so  close  beside  him,  in  the  statue-like  im- 
mobility of  the  long-trained  soldier) 

The  gods  may  act.  .  .  .  And  out  of  hate  and  love, 
Entangled  and  embattled,  she  may  fall, 
As  others  fell !     (He  sees  Omaphale) 

And  there,  I  take  it,  walks 
One  of  her  Maenad  band,  chalk-faced  and  frail 
And  rapt  of  eye,  a  Bassarid  grown  sick 
Of  too  much  love ! 

Inarch  us 

It  is  Omaphale ! 

Pittacus 
Omaphale  !     For  something  lost  she  seeks ! 


172  SAPPHO    IN    LEUCADIA 

Inarchus 
What  seek  you,  girl  ? 

Omaphale  (abstractedly) 

The  Sea ! 

Inarchus  (bluntly) 

For  Phaon's  ship? 

Omaphale 

He  has  been  taken  from  me.  .  .  .  No,  the  Sea 
Is  all  they  left  me.  .  .  .  'Tis  the  only  way ! 

She  shudders  and  draws  back,  as  she  peers  jrom  the  verge. 

But  oh,  I  cannot  do  it !     I  am  weak ! 
The  water  is  so  far !     The  wheeling  birds 
Still  make  me  dizzy  !     Oh,  it  is  too  hard ! 

She  lowers  her  hands,  looks  up  at  the  sky,  the  cliff,  the 
sea,  gazing  slowly  about  her.  Then  she  closes  her 
eyes,  and  gropes  brokenly  toward  the  sea,  her  hands 
once  more  out-stretched. 

But  now,  it  must  be  done ! 

She  is  on  the  very  verge  when  Inarchus  seizes  her.  She 
struggles  fiercely  as  he  drags  her  back. 

Oh,  let  me  go ! 
I  only  ask  to  die  —  that,  that  is  all ! 


SAPPHO    IX    LEU CADI  A  173 

Phocus 
The  girl  would  kill  herself ! 

Omaphale  {struggling  ) 

I  want  to  die! 

Pittacus 

What  is  this  madness,  girl?     (She  is  silent) 

What  is  your  name? 
And  why  should  one  so  young  fight  bitterly 
To  go  to  such  a  death ! 

Phocus  (sadly) 

She  has  been  crossed 
In  love,  as  I  in  Samnos  once  was  crossed ! 

Omaphale,   wild-eyed  and  dumb,   gazes   at   them.     She 
breaks  away,  but  is  caught  by  Inarchus. 

Inarchus 
What  shall  I  do  with  her? 

Pittacus 

The  girl  is  weak; 
She  shakes  and  quivers  like  a  captured  bird ! 


174 


SAPPHO    IN   LEU CAD  I A 


We  may  have  been  too  rough !     Some  woman's  hand 
Should  hold  her,  and  a  woman's  comrade  voice 
Should  question  with  her  softly !     Tell  me,  girl, 
What  happened  you? 

Phocus 

Ho,  here  are  women  now ! 
Quick,  call  them  you.     From  me  they  might  construe 
One  word  as  an  advance,  and  hold  me  to  it ! 

Erinna,  Atthis  and  Megara,  crowned  with  flowers,  have 
entered  while  he  speaks.  They  carry  musical 
instruments. 

Erinna  (dropping  her  cithara) 

What  has  this  woman  done,  to  be  so  held? 

Inarchus 

Just  what  she  did  I  know  not,  but  I  think 
She  must  be  mad,  for  she  would  throw  herself 
From  off  the  cliff ! 

Erinna 

Why,  she  is  but  a  girl ! 

Omaphale  turns  away,  with  still  another  effort  to  reach 
the  cliff-edge. 

O  Atthis,  hasten  by  the  Shepherd's  Path,  and  call 
To  Sappho! 

Exit  Atthis 


SAPPHO    IN   LEU  CADI  A  175 

Phocus 

Why  call  for  Sappho? 

Erinna 

Knows  she  not 
The  most  assuaging  words,  the  softest  tones, 
To  utter  to  a  heart  that  sorrows  wring? 

Phocus 

What,  Sapphic  music  at  a  time  like  this ! 

The  girl  wants  wine,  good  wine,  to  warm  her  blood 

And  make  her  spirits  dance ! 

He  ojfers  her  his  nine-flask,  but  the  girl  turns  away, 
still  silent. 

The  girl  is  mad ! 

He  offers  it  again. 
There  is  no  question  but  the  girl  is  mad ! 
He  drinks,  deeply,  and  replaces  flask,  with  lips  smacking. 

Erinna 
Oh,  see  if  Sappho  comes. 

Me  gar  a 

Tis  Atthis  calls. 
She  answers;   yes,  'tis  Sappho. 


176  SAPPHO    IN   LEUCADIA 

Atthis  {entering,  breathless) 

She  is  here. 

They  step  back.  Sappho  enters  with  an  armful  of 
golden  samphire,  and  a  lyre  oj  silver  and  gilded  cedar- 
wood.  She  looks  from  jace  to  face.  There  is  a 
suggestion  oj  power,  oj  imperiousness,  in  her  bearing. 

Sappho 

Why  have  you  called  me,  Atthis  ?    Was  it  you, 
Erinna  ? 

Erinna 
Yes,  'twas  I. 

Sappho,  whose  eyes  had  met  those  of  Pittacus,  in  a  steady, 
combative  gaze,  now  sees  Inarchus  and  his  captive 
for  the  first  time. 

Sappho 

What  girl  is  this, 
And  why  is  she  held  thus,  a  prisoner ! 

Phocns 

Here  is  a  girl,  stark  mad,  who  wants  to  die  — 
And  so  all  Lesbos  bellows  out  for  you ! 

Sappho 
For  me?     But  why  for  me? 


SAPPHO    IN   LEUCADIA  177 

Phocus  (mincingly) 

She  has  a  wound 
That  begs  the  oil  of  Sapphic  song !     She  needs 
A  chain  of  golden  music  round  her  thrown, 
To  charm  her  back  to  life.     Thus  have  I  seen 
Phoenician  jugglers  pipe  and  soothe  an  asp 
To  sleep  most  beautiful !     So,  since  she  will 
Not  drink  of  wine,  let  music  do  its  worst ! 

Sappho 

Peace,  peace;   this  girl  is  shaking  like  a  leaf, 
She  has  been  tortured  by  more  things  than  fear ! 
Why,  child,  look  up  at  me !    You  are  too  young 
To  know  what  sorrow  is !     These  eyes  are  still 
Too  soft  to  peer  into  the  awful  Night 
That  never  answers  us,  and  never  ends ! 

Sappho  kneels  and  takes  the  girl's  hands,  with  a  sign  for 
Inarch  us  to  release  her.  Inarchus  glances  at  Pittacus. 
The  latter  nods,  as  if  in  assent.  Inarchus  holds  the 
girl  by  only  one  arm. 

Phocus 

Now,  by  Astarte's  eyes,  here  stands  a  test ! 
Here  is  the  first,  so  called,  most  eloquent 
Of  Lesbian  singers  with  a  pretty  task : 


178  SAPPHO    IN    LEV  CADI  A 

To  medicine  a  grief,  to  make  this  girl 
Content  with  life,  as  wine  might  do  for  me ! 

{He  drinks) 
Pittacus 

You,  Sappho,  you  forever  sing  of  life 
And  of  its  joys.     Let,  then,  your  lyric  gift 
Lure  back  to  love  of  life  this  broken  girl 
—  Ay,  let  it  stand  a  test,  as  Phocus  says ! 

Sappho 

I  seek  no  triumph,  I  should  ask  no  test 
At  such  a  time !     For  even  Pittacus 
I  could  not  toy  upon  a  wounded  heart ! 

Pittacus 

But  you  will  talk  with  her,  will  plead  with  her? 

Sappho 

As  I  would  plead  with  any  troubled  soul ! 
Release  the  maiden  —  she  will  not  escape. 
Why,  you  are  nothing  but  a  girl ! 

Sappho  holds  the  girVs  face  between  her  hands,  gazing 
into  it.  Then  she  continues  to  speak,  gradually 
growing  oblivious  of  those  about  her. 

All  life 
Should  mean  so  much  to  one  who  still  has  youth ! 
These  saddened  lips  were  made  for  happiness 


SAPPHO    IN    LEUCADIA  179 

And  tender  words  and  kisses  touched  with  fire ! 
Such  eyes  as  these  should  never  mournful  seem ! 
What  sorrow  is  it  makes  them  swim  with  tears 
And  shakes  your  slender  body?     Speak  to  me 
What  is  it  that  has  made  all  life  so  dark? 

Omaphale 
No  longer,  now,  he  loves  me. 

Sappho 

Tell  me  more. 

Omaphale 
His  love  is  dead,  and  I  must  die  with  it. 

Sappho 

No,  no;   think  not  because  some  foolish  word 
Has  passed  between  you  — 

Omaphale 

Dead,  his  love  is  dead ; 

He  is  another's  now  ! 

Sappho 

But  love  is  love; 
Although  the  torch  may  fall,  the  sacred  fire 
Endures  and  burns;   the  broken  dream  comes  back; 


180  SAPPHO    IN   LEU  CAD  I A 

The  voices  of  the  Spring  may  pass  away, 
But  other  Springs  shall  bear  another  song 
And  life  shall  know  some  newer  love ! 

P hocus  (aside) 

Now,  by  the  horn  of  Bacchus,  here  is  Song 
Put  into  use ! 

Sappho 
Nay,  speak  to  me ! 

Omaphale 


He  loves 


Another  !    Let  me  die  ! 


Sappho  (pleadingly,  softly) 

.  .  .  And  say  farewell 
To  light  and  warmth  and  greenness,  and  go  down 
To  some  grey  world  of  ghosts  you  know  not  of ! 
Think,  think,  what  life  still  means  .   .  .  think  of  the  joy 
Of  breathing  in  such  beauty,  dusk  and  dawn, 
Moonbeam  and  starlight,  sun  and  wind  and  sea, 
The  marbled  cities  and  the  silences, 
The  sting  and  sweep  of  the  storm  on  night  of  rain, 
The  wild  surf  and  the  brine-smell  and  the  ship 
That  brings  the  heart  we  love,  the  tangle  old 


SAPPHO    IN    LEUCADIA  181 

Of  tears  and  laughter,  rapture  and  regret, 
The  sheer  glad  careless  god-like  going-on 
From  day  to  golden  day,  the  grapeless  wine 
Of  music,  dreaming  music,  to  upbuild 
Ethereal  homes  for  us  when  we  have  tired 
Of  too  much  joy,  the  throats  of  song  to  lift 
Us  out  of  loneliness  and  give  our  tears 
A  touch  of  beauty,  and  the  last  great  gift, 
The  gift  of  Love,  that  makes  death  pitiful, 
And  paves  the  world  with  wonder ! 

Omaphale 

All  I  asked 
Was  that  he  love  me  —  and  he  loves  me  not ! 

Pittacus  {aside  to  Inarchus) 

Behold  where  Phaon  comes,  mark  well  each  word 
That  passes  here  between  the  two ! 

Enter  Phaon,  who  stands  unnoticed  on  the  outskirts  of  the 
preoccupied  group. 

Sappho 

Tell  me 
The  name  of  him  who  has  forgotten  you ! 

Omaphale 
I  cannot  tell ! 

Sappho 

Say  where  he  may  be  found. 


182  SAPPHO    IN   LEU  CAD  I A 

Omaphale   shakes   her   head,    obdurately.     Sappho   still 
looks  at  her  silent  face,  in  wonder. 

Then  you  can  hate  him  not  ?     You  love  him  still  ? 
Could  you  not  steal  unto  his  couch  and  plunge 
A  knife  into  his  sleeping  heart?     And  she, 
The  one  who  came  between  you  —  would  you  kill 
This  cruel  woman  with  her  careless  smiles? 

Omaphale 

I  love  this  man  so  much  that  I  would  die 
To  see  him  happy ! 

Sappho 

But  what  man  is  this 
Who  merits  such  mad  love? 

Omaphale  (looking  away  and  seeing  Phaon,  in  one  in- 
voluntary scream) 

Phaon ! 

Sappho 
Why  Phaon?    What  is  Phaon  unto  you? 

Omaphale 

O  Phaon,  tell  them  that  you  were,  you  are, 
The  man  I  loved  .  .  .  tell  them ! 


SAPPHO    IN    LEUCADIA  183 

Sappho  (pointing  to  Phaon) 

Know  you  this  man  ? 

Pittacus 

Come,  answer  quickly,  child ! 

Sappho 

Know  you  this  man  ? 

Enter  Alcaeus,  who  watches  silent  and  uneasy. 

Omaphale 

He  was  —  no,  no ;  this  means  some  woe 

I  cannot  understand.     What  makes  your  face 

So  white  ?     You  shrink  and  quiver  and  your  eyes 

Are  like  dead  women's  eyes !     This  means  some  harm 

To  him!     No,  no,  /  nercer  knew  this  man! 

Pittacus 
You  knew  him  not? 

OmapJtale  (the  falsehood  only  too  obvious) 

No  !   No  !   I  knew  him  not ! 

(To  Alcaeus)     You,  you  can  tell  them  he  is  innocent ! 

She  starts  towards  Phaon  with  outstretched  hands,  but  is 
held  back  by  the  stolid  Inarchus. 

Alcaeus 
The  girl  is  lying. 


1 84  SAPPHO    IN   LEU  CAD  I A 

Sappho 
Lying? 

Alcaeus 

Yes;   she  says 
These  words  to  shield  the  man. 

Sappho 

Whatman?  Whatman? 

Pittacus 

What  man  would  hide  and  skulk  and  wait  behind 
A  woman's  lie? 

Alcaeus 

The  man  who  took  this  girl 
And  loved  her  till  she  grew  a  weariness 
To  him,  the  man  who  bore  her  off  to  sea 
Against  her  will,  and  found  in  other  lands 
Another  lover  .  .  . 

Sappho 

Then  his  name  !     His  name ! 

Alcaeus 
His  name  is  Phaon. 

Omaphale 

No  —  he  took  me  not 
Against  my  will.     I  loved  him,  and  I  went. 


SAPPHO    IN   LEUCADIA  185 

Phaon 

The  woman  speaks  the  truth !    I  skulk  behind 
No  lies;   and  you,  my  sweet  Alcaeus,  you 
Shall  answer  for  this  thing,  or  — 

Pittacus 

Silence ! 

Sappho  (starting  back,  shaking) 

So, 
This  is  the  truth !  —  And  this  the  man  I  sousrht ! 


"■o1 


Pliaon  (to  Alcaeus) 

Oh,  you,  you  half-way  lover  of  women,  you 
Shall  answer  for  these  lies  —  you  Janus-face  ! 


Omaphale  (weeping  before  Pittacus) 
We  went  as  lovers,  sir,  as  happy  lovers ! 

Sappho 

This  is  the  truth,  indeed,  the  woman  speaks ! 
Oh,  this  is  more  than  I  can  bear !     They  went 
As  lovers,  till  he  looked  about  and  found 
Another  lover  from  another  land ! 


1 86  SAPPHO    IN   LEU  CADI  A 

Phocus  {wagging  his  head) 

If  you  would  shake  the  tree,  then  must  you  sort 
The  fruit ! 

Omaphale 

Will  you  forgive  me,  Phaon? 

Sappho 

Go  — 
Go  to  your  lover !     Go,  I  give  him  back 
To  you  !     Go  there  into  his  arms  again ! 
He  waits  for  you  —  he  is  impatient,  see ! 

Phaon 
Stop  —  this  is  mockery  ! 

Sappho 

See,  I  have  sung 
You  back  upon  his  breast.     Look,  I  have  saved 
You  from  the  Sea,  that  you  may  kiss  his  mouth ! 
Yes  !   Yes  !     I,  I  have  saved  you  for  this  man  ! 
With  words  as  soft  as  first-born  love  I  brought 
You  back  to  him !     Most  bravely,  was  it  not, 
Great  Pittacus,  I  cooed  and  pleaded  here, 
I  sounded  like  a  gymnast  of  the  wires, 
The  glory  and  the  wonder  of  all  life !  — 
But  I  shall  wring  your  State  with  no  more  song, 
And  I  shall  mouth  no  more,  and  plead  no  more ! 


SAPPHO    IN    LEUCADIA  187 

She  flings  her  harp  flashing  and  twirling  into  thesEgean. 

This  is  the  end  of  love !   This  is  the  end 
Of  faith  in  man,  in  life,  in  every  god 
That  mocks  your  temples ! 

Phocus  {aside) 

,£tna,  to  a  turn ! 

Erinna  (seeping) 
O  Sappho,  come  away! 

Atthis 
Oh,  come  with  us ! 

Sappho 

Yes.  I  will  come  with  you;    the  ghost  of  me 
Will  walk  and  talk  with  you  —  but  I  am  dead ! 
This  man  has  killed  all  life,  all  love,  in  me, 
All  happiness,  all  music,  and  all  song ! 

Phaon 

Nay,  hear  me,  but  a  word  .  .  . 

Sappho 

Wait,  I  shall  speak! 
Alcaeus,  Phocus,  you  have  wooed  me  both  — 


1 88  SAPPHO    IN   LEUCADIA 

Sought  me  for  many  years,  and  day  and  night 
Sighed  after  me !     Behold,  I  am  for  sale, 
For  sale  to  him  who  takes  me  where  I  stand ! 
I,  Sappho,  Queen  of  Song,  ay,  Queen  of  Love, 
The  Tenth  Muse  after  whom  the  others  walk, 
Am  I  not  worth  the  taking,  one  of  you? 

Alcaeus  {his  lean  face  blanching  at  her  words) 

And  you  will  hold  to  this? 

Sappho 

I  hold  to  it ! 
I  hold  to  anything  that  crushes  him 
That  I  have  learned  to  hate  !     You  fear  this  man  ? 
Are  both  of  you  afraid? 

P hocus 

Now,  by  the  horn 
Of  Bacchus,  lady,  I  did  love  you  well  — 
But  weeping  for  it  left  me  scant  o'  breath  1 

Phaon,  who  Jtas  snatched  out  his  sword,  now  turns  on 
the  more  dangerous  and  determined  Alcaeus. 

Phaon 

I  care  not  who  he  is,  but  by  the  gods 
Of  seamen  I  will  spit  the  first  rash  fool 
Who  listens  to  this  woman ! 


SAPPHO    IN    LEUCADIA  189 

Sappho 

One  of  you, 
Which  one  of  you  will  take  me  where  I  stand? 

Phaon 
Who  does  so,  first  must  taste  this  bitter  steel ! 

Alcaeus  {aside  to  Phaon) 
This  is  no  place  for  brawling ! 

Phaon  {desperately) 

What,  you  still 
Would  wtoo  your  old-time  love? 

Alcaeus 

I  stand  unarmed  — 
And  thank  your  gods  for  it !     But  meet  me  here 
At  dawn,  and  you  and  I  shall  fight  this  out, 
And  I  shall  kill  you ! 

Phaon 

Kill  me  !     I  could  mow7 
My  way  through  fields  of  music-tinkler's  throats, 
Dig  through  a  mountain  made  of  poet's  hearts, 
Ay,  swim  and  bathe  in  chorus-monger's  blood, 
And  face  a  dithyrambic  sea  of  all 
The  lean-gilled  singers  that  have  harped  through  Greece ! 


190  SAPPHO    IN   LEU  CAD  I A 

Sappho  {distraught) 

Kill  him,  Alcaeus,  for  he  killed  my  joy 

In  life;   he  killed  my  hope  of  happiness; 

He  killed  my  new  and  tender  love  ...  he  killed 

The  careless  singing  voices  of  my  heart !  .  .  . 

Oh,  kill  him  .  .  .  kill  him  ...  as  he  killed  my  soul ! 

White  with  fury,  she  rends  and  tears  her  robes,  and  sinks 
back  exhausted  jrom  her  frenzy  as  the  curtain  jails. 

Curtain. 


SAPPHO    IN   LEU  CAD  I A  191 


ACT    THREE 

Scene:  the  same  as  in  Act  II,  early  the  next  morning. 
Erinna  and  Atthis,  white  and  worn  with  watching, 
jace  the  sea. 

Erinna 

See,  Atthis,  it  is  morning ! 

Atthis 

What  a  night 
Of  sorrow ! 

Erinna 

Like  a  child  she  wept  and  cried 
For  Phaon,  and  then  paced  the  echoing  gloom, 
And  asked  if  it  were  cruel  thus  to  kill 
The  man  who  made  her  suffer !     Then  her  wrath 
Broke  forth  again,  and  down  on  him  she  called 
The  curses  of  the  gods,  then  calmer  grew, 
And  fell  to  weeping. 

Atthis 

I  have  sometimes  thought 
Her  love  was  like  her  music  when  she  sang 


I92  SAPPHO    IN   LEUCADIA 

To  us  at  midnight.     'Tis  o'er  passionate, 
And  seems  as  deep  as  life,  as  dark  as  death, 
And  wild  beyond  all  words !     In  this  our  world 
There  are  two  kinds  of  women :  one  men  seek 
And  desperately  love,  and  some  day  leave, 
Or  some  day  meet  their  death  for;  likewise  one 
They  seek  not  drunkenly,  and  yet  when  known, 
They  labor  for,  and  cleave  to,  all  their  years, 
And  fight  back  from  the  world's  end  to  rejoin. 
The  eternal  mother  calm  of  brow,  the  one, 
And  one,  the  eternal  lover ! 

Erinna 

Sappho  has 
The  strength  and  fire  of  each !     I  love  her  so 
I  could  not  see  her  faults. 

Atthis 

She  asks  too  much, 
And  ever  gives  too  much.     She  is  of  those 
Who  threaten  when  they  most  alluring  seem, 
Who  menace  even  when  they  yield  the  most. 
Volcanic  are  such  women :   that  same  fire 
Which  makes  them  dangerous  and  dark  and  cruel 
Still  leaves  them  warm  and  rich  and  bountiful, 
And  Love  creeps  closer,  presses  ever  up, 
Up  to  the  central  fires,  and  mile  by  mile 
The  soft  audacious  green  of  vineyard  dares 


SAPPHO    IN   LEUCADIA  193 

The  dreaming  crater.     Then  the  outbreak  comes, 
And  through  the  red-lipped  lava  and  the  ruin 
The  world  remembers ! 

Erinna 

Nay,  you  do  her  wrong. 
She  bleeds  when  she  is  wounded,  but  her  ways 
Are  soft  and  gentle.     Midnight  scarce  had  gone 
Ere  she  grew  calm  and  sought  Alcaeus  out. 
And  called  him  from  his  home,  and  through  the  gloom 
Of  his  walled  garden  pleaded  that  he  would 
Be  merciful  to  Phaon. 

Atthis 

He,  merciful! 


Erinna 

Alcaeus  said  that  honor  bade  him  meet 

The  man  who  challenged  him,  yet  gave  his  word, 

His  cryptic  word,  that  Phaon  should  not  die, 

If  she  but  yielded  him  the  little  ring 

Of  beaten  gold  she  wore  upon  her  wrist ! 

Atthis 

I  fear  this  self-contained  and  watchful  man, 
Whose  words  are  but  a  sheath  to  hide  his  thoughts. 


194  SAPPHO    IN    LEUCADIA 

Erinna 
I,  too,  I  fear  the  outcome  of  it  all ! 

Atthis 
If  Sappho  were  but  here ! 

Erinna  (looking  about) 

And  Phocus,  too  — 
He  should  have  come  to  us,  an  hour  ago ! 
When  once  her  woman's  rage  has  burned  away, 
She  will  go  back  to  Phaon,  for  such  love 
As  she  has  known  can  wither  not  and  die 
In  one  short  night. 

Atthis 

If  only  Pittacus 
Would  come  to  Sappho's  aid ! 

Erinna 

Not  Pittacus! 
Nay,  Pittacus  is  hard  and  granite  cold, 
His  breast  is  adamant,  his  hand  is  steel, 
And  he  has  dreamed  that  while  this  land  endures 
His  name  and  that  of  Lesbos  shall  be  linked ! 
He  wills  that  on  each  temple  "  Pittacus  " 
Shall  be  inscribed  in  letters  all  of  gold; 
And  bitter  in  his  mouth  has  been  the  praise 


SAPPHO    IN    LEUCADIA  195 

Of  Sappho;  he  has  grown  to  hate  her  name, 
Yet  fears  to  act.     But  he  may  make  this  night 
A  pretext  .  .  .  See,  'tis  Phocus  come  at  last. 

Enter  Phocus,  panting 

Phocus 

Ho,  what  a  climb !     Had  I  not  stumbled  on 
A  snoring  herdsman  with  a  wine-sack  full 
Of  better  life  than  his,  I  should  be  prone 
Beside  the  City  Wall !     Oh,  what  a  climb  ! 

Erinna 
But  quick,  what  news? 

Phocus 

News?   News  enough  to  swamp 
A  galley!     Pittacus  is  on  his  way; 
Alcaeus  by  the  herd-path  also  comes, 
And  Mytilene  crowds  upon  the  heels 
Of  Sappho,  caterwauling  ribald  song, 
And  growling  curses  back  upon  the  Guard ! 
And  Phaon,  it  is  said,  was  put  in  arms, 
And  then  again  was  not,  and  still  again 
'Tis  held  he  was  deported  in  the  night, 
And  still,  once  more,  again,  that  Pittacus 
Has  issued  mandates  there  shall  be  no  fight  — 


196  SAPPHO    IN   LEUCADIA 

While  others  whisper  Phaon  hurries  forth 
To  meet  Alcaeus  and  right  out  his  right 
Before  'tis  known  of ! 

Erinna  {at  the  sound  of  singing) 

Listen !     Hear  you  not  ?  — 
The  Sailor's  Hymn  to  Sunrise? 

Atthis 

Yes,  I  hear! 

Phocus 

But  I  have  further  tidings !     First,  a  sip 

O'  herdsman's  comfort !  —  Pittacus,  'tis  said, 

Commands  these  men  must  neither  meet  nor  fight. 

He  knows  his  words  are  useless  —  mark  you  that ! 

But  purposes  to  wait,  and  make  no  move 

Till  this  fine-feathered,  anchor-fouling,  swart, 

Hot-headed  son  o'  brine  called  Phaon  comes, 

As  he  will  surely  come,  and  bleats  and  yawls 

For  clash  o'  swords.     Thereat  the  waiting  Guard 

Shall  clap  him  into  irons;    the  charge  to  be 

Attempt  at  murder  on  a  citizen, 

The  penalty  whereof,  and  mark  you  this, 

Is  exile ! 

Erinna 

Atthis,  I  must  go  at  once 
And  seek  out  Sappho :   she  must  know  of  this ! 


SAPPHO    IN    LEU  CAD  I A  197 

Phocus 

Nay,  wait  till  I  unload !     Tis  whispered  round 
That  yester-night  the  Council  secretly 
Decreed  that  Phaon  and  Omaphale 
Should  in  the  streets  be  married,  publicly ! 
Now,  once  in  Samnos  .  .  . 

Erinna  (to  Atthis) 

Wait  on  my  return ! 

Exit  Erinna 

Phocus  (swelling  with  importance) 

And  mark  you  this :   the  less  your  Sappho  says 
Concerning  what  has  been,  or  is  to  be, 
The  better  with  you  all !     For  Pittacus 
And  lean  Alcaeus  tooth  and  nail  are  set 
On  her  undoing.     Mark  you  that  again ! 

Atthis 

It  shall  not  be.     No;   she  and  happiness 
Must  walk  together.     She  must  live  to  sing 
And  make  life  beautiful  with  music  still ! 

Phocus 

To  sing?     Ay,  there's  the  long  and  short  of  it ! 

(He  drinks  from  his  flagon) 


198  SAPPHO    IN   LEUCADJA 

What  song  is  there  in  these  besotted  days? 
A  life  most  scandalous,  and  then  a  trick 
O'  mouthing  vowels,  then  a  wanton  youth 
And  green-sick  maid  or  two  to  syllable 
Your  milk-and-water  sorrows,  warble  out 
Your  lecherous  odes,  and,  ho,  you  have  a  poet ! 

Atthis 
A  poet  who  is  fat  and  full  of  words ! 

Phocus  (swaggering) 

Now  Pittacus  has  told  me,  man  to  man, 
When  seeking  of  my  counsel,  that  our  tunes 
Have  turned  too  amorous,  and  must  be  stopped. 
And  I'm  behind  him  in  it !     You  talk  of  song, 
But  once  in  Samnos  was  a  lean  old  man 
Who  strung  across  a  shark's  jaw  on  a  box  — 

Atthis 

See,  see;   they  come  .  .  .  And  Sappho  is  not  here! 
Enter  Alcaeus,  armed,  attended  by  only  a  young  servant. 

Alcaeus 

He  is  not  here,  this  man  that  vowed  to  face 
A  sea  of  lilied  singers. 


SAPPHO    IN    LEUCADIA  199 

Phocus 

Fear  you  not ! 
This  hot-eyed  tunny  out  of  Pluto's  ditch 
Is  foaming,  lashing,  frothing  hitherward 
Along  the  Shepherd's  Path     {The  sun  rises) 

.  .  .  And  as  he  sware 
He  breaks  upon  us  with  the  rising  sun. 

Enter  Phaon,  followed  by  a  handful  of  Lesbian  sailors; 
sunburned,  graceful,  light-hearted  fellows,  but  now 
watchful  and  furtive-eyed. 

Phaon 
At  dawn  it  was  to  be.     Well,  it  is  dawn. 

He  whips  out  his  sword,  almost  gaily,  tries  its  edge  on 
his  thumb,  and  wheels  about.  Alcaeus,  nervous  and 
unstable,  not  yet  sure  of  his  ends,  faces  his  opponent. 

Alcaeus 
One  word,  before  this  fight  begins  .  .  . 

Phaon 

Words !    Words ! 
I  want  no  words !     My  life  to-day  is  worth 
A  minnow's  ransom  !     There's  a  narrative 
In  naked  steel  comes  nearer  to  my  wish 
Than  words ! 


200  SAPPHO    IN   LEUCADIA 

Alcaeus 

But  things  there  are  that  we  must  say 
By  word  of  mouth.     Still  let  judicial  steel  .  .  . 

Phaon  {shortly) 

These  words,  then,  if  you  must :   I  have  been  told 
We  two  are  destined  not  to  fight  this  fight ; 
That  one  who  much  esteems  you  will  step  in 
And  stop  this  combat,  as  you  stand  informed ! 

Alcaeus 
This  is  not  true ! 

Phaon  {determined) 

Then  show  it  to  be  false ! 
Quick !  I  shall  brook  no  quibble  or  delay ! 
Fight !   Fight,  I  charge  you !    Quick,  defend  yourself ! 

Alcaeus  {aside  to  servant) 

The  Guard !    What  keeps  the  Guard ! 

{To  Phaon)     But  I  would  know 
For  what  we  two  are  fighting  here? 

Phaon 

For  what? 
You  know  full  well  —  a  woman ! 


SAPPHO    IN    LEU  CADI  A  201 

Alcaeus 

Then,  we  fight 
For  issues  closed !     This  woman  came  to  me. 

PJuion 
To  you?     So  soon?     Within  a  night? 

Alcaeus 

Within 
A  night,  since  you  have  said  it ! 

Phaon 

Liar;    still 
You  swim  in  lies ! 

Alcaeus 

And  gave  this  band  of  gold 
To  be  a  token  —  Look  well  over  it ! 

Phaon  looks  at  the  urist-band,  incredulous ;  Alcaeus, 
thus  gaining  time,  peers  out  anxiously,  awaiting 
Pittacus  and  the  Guards. 

Phaon  {quivering) 

Ha  !   Xow ;   yes,  now  we  fight ;   we  doubly  need 
To  know  which  man  must  die !     We  doubly  need 
To  know  how  stand  the  gods,  if  this  be  true ! 
No  more  of  empty  words !     Come,  fight  it  out ! 


202  SAPPHO    IN   LEU  CAD  I A 

Alcaens,  about  to  expostulate,  finds  no  time  for  words. 
Phaon,  advancing,  compels  him  to  fight.  The 
crowd  draws  closer,  in  an  irregular  circle,  with  groans 
and  cheers  as  the  short-bladed  swords  clash  and 
strike.  Foot  by  foot  Alcaeus  is  forced  back.  It 
is  obvious  that  PJiaon  is  driving  him  towards  the 
cliff-edge.  He  is  foiled  in  this  by  the  sudden  en- 
trance of  Pittacus,  breathless,  followed  by  his  Guard. 
The  huge  Inarchus  strikes  down  the  sword  of  Alcaeus, 
who  is  already  cut  on  the  arm.  Phaon,  seized  from 
behind,  still  slashes  with  his  sword. 

Pittacus 
What  brawl  is  this  that  stains  our  Lesbian  peace? 

A  Voice 
A  fight  for  a  woman ! 

Another  Voice 
Let  them  fight  it  out ! 


A  Citizen 
'Twas  Phaon  forced  him  to  it ! 


A  Sailor 

Fight  it  out ! 


SAPPHO    IN    LEU  CAD  I A  203 

A  Citizen 
He  fell  upon  him ! 

A  Citizen 

Ay,  he  up  with  sword 
And  at  him  like  a  Fury !     Have  it  out ! 

A  Sailor 
They  fight  in  honest  combat !     Have  it  out ! 

A  Citizen 
Alcaeus  was  compelled  to  draw ! 

A  Sailor 

You  lie; 
He  came  at  dawn  to  meet  this  man. 

Pittacus 

Be  still ! 
Who  sought  a  Lesbian's  life  shall  pay  for  it. 
Guards,  put  this  man  in  chains,  and  hold  him  close. 

The  hoplites  seize  and  manacle  the  struggling  Phaon. 
The  sailors  crowd  close,  but  dare  not  interfere. 

Pittacus  (aside  to  Alcaeus) 
The  gods  have  acted  .  .  .  With  my  second  blow 
We  shall  be  masters !     And  this  man  you  hate 
Will  go  from  Lesbos  stained  in  thought  and  name. 


204  SAPPHO    IN    LEU  CADI  A 

Alcaeus 
Omaphale  —  you  hold  her  close  ? 

Pittacus 

We  hold 
Her  close,  assuredly.     The  girl  must  stand 
The  column  of  our  acts.     This  Sappho  heads 
An  army  without  arms,  that  secretly 
Opposes,  threatens,  thwarts  me.     Here,  to-day, 
It  shall  be  brought  to  issue.     We  shall  learn 
What  hand  rules  Lesbos  still  —  and  more  there  is 
In  this,  than  but  a  foolish  woman's  fall ! 

Alcaeus 
Then,  I  were  best  away. 

Pittacus 

Go,  have  your  wound 
Attended,  for  excuse.     (Aloud)     But,  stop;   were  you 
Assaulted  by  this  man? 

Alcaeus  (showing  wounded  arm) 

This  speaks  for  me  ! 

Sappho  enters,  panting,  her  face  pale.  She  is  followed 
by  Erinna  and  a  group  oj  Lesbians,  bearing  sickles  and 
grape-knives. 


SAPPHO    IN    LEU  CADI  A  205 

Pittacus 

Assault  it  was. 

Sappho  (authoritatively.     Her  gaze  has  been  on  Plmon) 
Why  is  this  man  in  chains? 

Pittacus 

He  broke  a  law  of  Lesbos. 

Sappho  (tauntingly) 

Did  he  drink 
A  sip  of  wine?     Or  sing  a  happy  chord 
Of  shepherd  music? 

Phocus 

Shepherd  music  !     Oh ! 
Oh  !    Shepherd  music  !     That  was  good  !     'Twas  more 
Like  spouting  sulphur  crowned  with  Typhon's  fire  I 

Pittacus  (judicially,  realizing  the  people  before  him  must 
be  convinced  oj  the  justness  of  his  action) 

This  man  defied  the  State  and  broke  the  peace 
Of  Lesbos,  and  must  suffer.     I  have  sought 
To  make  this  island  one  of  temperate  ways, 
And  late  and  early  I  have  strained  and  toiled 
To  reach  this  end.     Its  wastrel  years  have  left 
Its  name  a  by-word  on  the  lips  of  Greece, 


206  SAPPHO    IN   LEU  CAD  I A 

And  not  until  its  must-vats  are  no  more, 
And  all  its  vaults  of  flagoned  indolence 
Are  emptied,  and  its  vineyards  are  destroyed, 
And  all  its  simpering  harps  made  into  swords, 
Shall  we  dare  hope  to  be  a  State  again ! 

Sappho  (defiantly) 

Then,  it  is  worse  to  crush  a  thousand  grapes, 
O,  man  of  war,  than  twice  a  thousand  lives  ? 
Quick,  Phocus,  give  me  of  your  wine  to  drink 
To  one  who  knows  his  Lesbos !     That  puts  blood, 
Good  Lesbian  blood,  in  me !     Yet  we  had  thought 
'Twas  Bacchus  who  once  called  this  island  "  home," 
And  blessed  our  vines !     We  thought  Methymna  saw 
The  harp  of  Orpheus  float  to  Lesbian  shores, 
The  god's  own  head  washed  high  upon  our  sands  — 
And  from  the  dead  mouth  sounds  of  music  creep 
And  crown  our  island  with  its  gift  of  song ! 

The  Lesbians 
That  is  the  truth ! 

Shepherds 

Our  Sappho  speaks  the  truth ! 
Sappho 

Rail  not  at  wine !    When  Athens  threatened  us, 
And  sentineled  our  shores,  and  sail  by  sail 


SAPPHO    IN    LEUCADIA  207 

Shut  off  the  Sea,  and  flung  our  ramparts  down 

And  left  us  huddled  close,  without  defence, 

And  all  our  cattle  died  for  want  of  rain, 

And  drought  drove  all  our  people  from  the  hills, 

And  Lesbos  had  no  water,  none  to  lave 

The  dying,  none  to  give  unto  the  sick, 

And  none  to  mix  the  waiting  lime  and  sand 

Whereof  to  build  a  wall  against  the  foe  — 

Mark  you  the  tale  —  'twas  from  the  sunburnt  hills 

Our  fathers  tore  the  abundant  grapes,  and  crushed 

The  precious  liquor  from  them,  vat  by  vat, 

And  mixed  their  mortar,  and  threw  up  their  walls 

And  fought  the  Athenians  back  into  the  Sea ! 

Nay,  rail  no  more  at  wine,  chaste  Pittacus ! 

The  Lesbians 

And  that  is  truth!     Still  Sappho  speaks  the  truth! 

Pittacus 

To-morrow,  then,  shall  turn  it  to  a  lie ! 

Sappho 

My  people,  listen  close !     This  man  of  war, 
This  man  who  walks  in  steel  and  sleeps  in  stone, 
While  we  are  ramparted  by  rustling  leaves 
And  love  and  careless  flowers,  this  same  man 
Who  would  make  fortresses  of  garden  walls, 
And  grape-fields  into  flashing  battlegrounds, 


208  SAPPHO    IN   LEU  CAD  I A 

Who  would  turn  amphora  and  urn  and  bowl 
To  sword  and  pike  and  helmet  —  he  would  leave 
Our  towns  no  longer  thronging-masted  marts, 
But  tankards  of  dissension  and  of  blood ! 
He  would  upon  the  lamb  drape  lion-skins, 
And  have  us  known  for  what  we  can  not  be ! 

Pittacus 
No  —  have  us  known  not  as  we  now  are  known ! 

Sappho 

He  to  the  kilns  would  fling  our  carven  fauns 

And  to  the  fire  our  stately  marbles  give  — 

Our  chiselled  dreams  that  cannot  draw  a  sword, 

Our  Parian  mutes  that  may  not  bear  a  pike !  — 

And  make  them  into  lime  for  arsenal  walls, 

And  school  us  how  to  loa  the  a  purple  grape ! 

Wine  —  Wine  !    This  island  sings  on,  floats  on,  wine  ! 

Wine  roofs  our  homes,  an  d  feeds  our  hungry  mouths ; 

Our  galleys  freight  it  to  the  thirsty  world, 

It  makes  the  sorrowful  no  longer  sad; 

It  leaves  pain  unremem  bered,  makes  us  seem 

The  equal  of  the  gods;    the  aged,  young; 

The  sickly,  well;  the  silent,  full  of  song; 

The  parted  lover  grieve  not  for  his  love ! 

It  is  a  secret  god  who  stoops  to  make 

Us  rich  with  music ! 


SAPPHO    IN    LEU  CAD  I A  209 

Phocus  (aside) 

Now,  by  the  horn,  her  words 
At  last  are  wisdom  ! 

Pittacus 

Stop,  enough  of  this  f 
There  shall  be  parted  lovers  that  no  wine 
May  comfort  .  .  .  Let  the  prisoner  stand  forth. 

Sappho  (desperately  —  in  a  mad  torrent  oj  defiance) 

And  this  is  wisdom,  this  the  heart  and  core 
Of  that  calm  highest  fruitage  that  you  flaunt 
Upon  your  thought-fed  tree  of  knowledge  !      Oh, 
It  maddens  me  !     These   icy  grandeurs  make 
Me  like  a  Maenad,  make   me  storm  and  rage 
And  wonder  how  the  ruddy  blood  of  life 
Could  run  so  slow  and  pale  !      You  never  laugh 
And  never  weep,  men  say.    .    .    .   You  never  know 
The  meaning  and  the  glory  of  the  morn, 
The  passion  and  the  pathos  of  the  dusk, 
The  rapture  and  the  wonder  of  all  life ! 
You  are  a  burnt-out  kiln,  a  river-bed 
Of  aching  emptiness,  a  dried-up  vat, 
A  hearth  without  a  fire,  a  thing  of  bones ! 
You  have  not  found  the  secret  and  the  sweep 
Of  Music,  learned  the  meaning  of  the  Spring, 
Or  known  its  soft  renewals  born  of  love 


2IO  SAPPHO    IN    LEU  CAD  I A 

And  sorrow !     You  have  never  watched  the  Sea 
Without  some  miser's  thought  of  tax  and  toll, 
Nor  bent  above  the  crimson  of  the  rose 
Without  some  rapine  thought  of  battle-fields ! 
Though  you  should  live  till  your  last  hair  is  white. 
And  I  and  this  same  man  you  hold  in  chains 
Should  die  this  moment  ...  we  have  known  of  life 
And  earth  far  more  than  you  could  ever  know  1 

A  cry  of  approval  breaks  jrom  the  people. 

Pittacus 

Enough  of  this !      Am  I  a  king  of  sots? 

Our  cities  and  our  veins  have  come  to  flow 

With  waten*  wine  instea  d  of  good  red  blood ! 

We  are  Sidonian  idlers  of  the  night 

Who  pay  out  gold  to  have  our  fighting  done 

By  soldiers  bred  abroad.     We  are  a  land 

That  women  lead,  who  strum  on  droning  gut 

And  pipe  through  foolish  tubes  along  our  fields 

For  years  untilled,  our  roads  all  left  unpaved, 

Our  towns  and  harbors  still  unfortified. 

We  sit  and  loiter  by  the  walls  that  lean 

No  longer  mended,  and  ungathered  wait 

The  olive-crops  while  broken  lutes  are  patched 

And  some  new  song  is  learned.     Now  it  must  cease! 

Sappho 

He  says,  my  people,  we  must  sing  no  more. 


SAPPHO    IN    LEU  CADI  A  21 1 

Lesbians 
And  breathe  and  eat  no  more ! 

P hocus  (aside) 

And  drink  no  more? 

Pittacus 

I  am  a  patient  man,  and  just,  I  think. 

I  seek  to  find  the  light,  and  sometimes  learn 

Through  error,  and  advance  through  unbelief. 

In  things  imperial  I  have  been  taught 

To  heed  my  people's  wishes,  and  to  yield  — 

But  on  one  base  I  stand  immovable; 

And  now  I  charge  you  with  its  final  truth : 

The  State,  that  learns  to  act,  endures  and  lives; 

But  one  that  sits  and  drones  away  its  nights 

In  wine  and  amorous  dreams,  must  die  of  it! 

Phaon 

Yet  here  two  men  would  act :  and  one  you  hold 
In  chains  —  and  you  a  lover  of  the  strong  ! 
But  let  me  at  him,  and  I'll  leave  him  there 
As  swine-fat  for  your  chariot's  axletree ! 

Sappho 
Yes,  one  you  hold  in  chains,  and  say  not  why ! 


212  SAPPHO    IN    LEU  CAD  I A 

Pittacus 
What  I  have  done  was  done  for  Lesbos'  sake. 

Sappho  (to  the  people) 

Who  has  done  most  for  Lesbos,  Pittacus 
Or  Sappho? 

The  People 

Sappho !  Sappho ! 

Sappho 

Who  has  taught 
You  to  be  happy? 

The  People 
Sappho  it  has  been ! 

Sappho 

What  are  my  sins,  then,  that  you  strike  at  me 
Thus  covertly,  and  put  this  man  in  chains? 

She  steps  towards  Phaon,  who  turns  away  from  her,  with 
a  gesture  oj  repudiation. 

Pittacus  (seizing  his  chance) 
Is  this  man  aught  to  you? 


SAPPHO    IN    LEU  CAD  I A  213 

Sappho  (slowly,  after  a  silence) 

The  man  is  naught  to  me ! 

Pittacus 
Then  what  he  suffers  must  be  naught  to  you ! 

Sappho  (dazed) 
And  what  I  suffered,  too,  is  naught  to  him ! 

Pittacus  (more  assured,  realizing  Sappho's  bewilderment) 

Your  sins  are  those  of  Lesbos,  that  must  cease. 

Sappho 

And  when  two  lovers  kiss,  I  am  the  cause? 

Pittacus 

Enough !     I  say  you  are  a  blight  and  shame 
To  Lesbos,  and  this  man  who  lived  so  deep 
Has  lived  not  in  the  law.     Let  him  stand  forth. 
You  are  exiled.     In  seven  days  a  ship 
Shall  leave  this  harbor,  going  forth  at  night; 
And  under  guard  you  shall  go  forth  with  it 
From  Lesbos,  and  on  pain  of  death  return ! 

Sappho 
Exiled  !     He,  Phaon,  is  exiled  from  home  ! 


214  SAPPHO    IN    LEU  CADI  A 

Pittacus 

The  people  of  this  isle  shall  speak  of  you 
As  of  the  dead. 

Sappho  (rebelliously) 

My  people,  have  you  heard? 

Erinna 

O  Sappho,  say  no  more,  lest  some  new  blow 
Upon  you  fall ! 

Sappho 

Why  should  I  fear  a  man 
Who  stands  in  fear  of  me?     {To  Erinna)     Now  shall 

I  taunt 
Him  till  he  sends  me  forth  at  Phaon's  side  ! 

Pittacus  (nettled  into  anger) 
What  man  is  this  who  fears  you? 

The  people  cheer  for  Sappho,  and  crowd  closer,  but  the 
hoplites  hold  them  back  with  drawn  swords,  circling 
about  their  Tyrant. 

Sappho  (heatedly) 

'Tis  a  man 
Named  Pittacus,  who  rules  by  hate  and  fear 
And  guile  —  whose  guards,  see,  even  now  must  hold 


SAPPHO    IN    LEU  CADI  A  .       215 

His  subjects  back  with  naked  swords !     A  king 

That  Athens  calls  the  Fish-Xet  Fighter  since 

He  bore  beneath  his  arm  a  hidden  seine 

And  when  he  fought  with  Phryno  cast  his  net 

About  the  stronger  man,  enmeshed  his  sword, 

And  like  a  harbor-sweeper,  gilled  and  caught 

And  claimed  his  sickly  conquest.  .  .  .  We  were  free 

To  choose  our  lovers  and  our  leaders  once, 

And  sing  when  we  were  happy !     Lesbians, 

Here  is  a  man  that  Pittacus  has  said 

Shall  into  exile  go !     And  I  have  said 

He  is  unjustly  sent  and  shall  not  go! 

Which  shall  it  be,  my  people? 

There  is  a  cry  or  two  of  "  Pittacus  "  from  the  waiting 
guards,  followed  by  a  roar  of  exultant  "  Sappho!  " 
"  Sappho!  "  Pittacus  pales  at  the  sound,  and  motions 
to  Inarchus. 

Pittacus 

Guards,  stand  forth ! 
(Aside  to  Inarchus)  I  must  act  quick,  or  all  can  still  be 

lost! 
This  woman  is  a  tigress,  lashing  bars 
Her  fun'  yet  may  break.     One  whip  I  have 
Reserved  until  the  end,  one  brand  of  fire 
To  beat  her  back.     You  hold  in  readiness 
This  girl,  Omaphale.     When  I  shall  give 
The  signal,  let  her  stand  before  the  crowd ! 


2l6  SAPPHO    IN   LEU  CADI  A 

Inarchus 
The  trull  shall  be  produced ! 

Sappho 

Behold  the  king 
Who  casts  his  people  forth  without  a  trial. 

Pittacus  (wheeling) 

This  woman  lies !    No  Lesbian  has  known 
His  wrath  without  just  cause ! 

Sappho 

Then  tell  us  why 
This  man  in  chains  is  exiled ! 

Pittacus 

Since  he  sought 
A  Lesbian's  life. 

Sappho 

That  worthy  Lesbian 
In  turn  sought  his. 

Pittacus 

Enough  of  this;  he  forced 
The  fight  upon  Alcaeus ! 


SAPPHO    IN   LEU  CADI  A  21 7 

Sappho 

Lies  !     All  lies  ! 
'Twas  7,  I  forced  this  fight  upon  them  both ! 
I  bent  them  to  my  will ;   I  harried  them, 
And  thrust  and  drove  them  at  each  other's  throats ! 
I  was  the  arm  behind  their  lifted  sword; 
I  was  the  rage  behind  their  cries  of  hate ! 
And  you,  who  talk  of  justice,  you  who  turn 
To  smite  the  path,  and  let  the  serpent  go, 
You  shrink  and  wait  behind  your  sullen  guard, 
And  dare  not  act ! 

Pittacus  {enraged) 

Act,  act  I  shall!    You  hear 
This  woman's  words  ?     From  her  own  mouth  she  stands 
Accused,  arraigned,  convicted  of  her  crime ! 

Sappho 

Nay,  not  a  woman,  but  the  mangled  husk, 
The  trampled  marc,  of  one ! 

Pittacus 

You  are  exiled/ 

A  murmur  rises  from  the  crowd. 


2l8  SAPPHO    IN    LEUCADIA 

Sappho  (aside) 

'Tis  come,  Erinna !    He  and  I  shall  go 
Out  to  the  lonely  places  of  the  world, 
And  learn  to  live  again.  .  .  .  Great  Pittacus, 
I  thank  you  for  this  banishment !     It  means 
Release,  re-birth,  to  me  !     I  glory  in  it ! 

Pittacus 

Ay,  glory  in  it,  for  behold,  you  win ! 
You  override  my  word,  and  doubly  win ! 
You  said  this  Phaon  here  should  not  be  sent 
From  Lesbos.     Then  in  Lesbos  he  remains ! 
You  shall  be  listened  to.  .  .  .  Your  word  is  law ! 
Release  this  man,  her  vow  leaves  innocent. 
'Tis  she  who  goes  from  Lesbos,  and  at  dusk! 
'Tis  she  who  now  shall  watch  across  the  spray 
The  failing  lights,  the  slowly  sinking  hills, 
The  home  that  is  to  her  no  longer  home ! 

Sappho 

Alone  into  the  world  ...  yet  not  alone, 
For  where  Love  is  shall  be  no  banishment, 
And  where  Love  waits  and  walks  no  loneliness ! 

Pittacus 

Entombed  and  coffined  from  this  day  you  are, 
And  we  shall  speak  of  you  as  of  the  dead ! 


SAPPHO    IN    LEU  CADI  A  219 

Sappho 

Oh,  Phaon,  did  you  hear?     Time  was  you  turned 
And  fought  for  me,  at  words  like  this ! 

Phaon 

Time  was 
I  loved  you,  too ! 

Sappho 

Time  was  you  loved  me,  too ! 

Phaon 
You  flung  that  love  away ! 

Sappho 

Xo;  no;  it  seemed 
Not  mine  .  .  .  and  for  the  moment  I  was  not 
Myself  ...  it  drove  me  unto  madness. 

Phaon  {raging) 

Drove 
You  unto  madness  .  .  .  then  unto  the  man 
You  met  at  midnight  in  his  garden's  gloom ! 
Is  that  not  true? 

Sappho 

Yes;   that  is  true. 


220  SAPPHO    IN   LEUCADIA 

Phaon 

You  sought 
The  buyer  e'en  before  the  price  was  paid ! 

Sappho 
Stop! 

Phaon 

Stop  ?  Why  should  I  stop  ?  Have  you  once  stopped 
When  passion  drove  you  into  other  arms  ?  — 
You  palmer- worm  that  feeds  on  passion,  then 
Advances  in  a  night  to  newer  fields ! 


Oh  .  .  .  Phaon! 


Sappho 


Phaon 


.  .  .  When  it  took  you  forth  at  night 
To  seek  Alcaeus,  when  you  whirled  your  wrath 
About  me  like  a  flail,  for  having  known 
A  girl,  and  told  you  not ! 

Sappho  (panting) 

This  .  .  .  this  from  you ! 
I  have  forgiven  much.  .  .  .  But  now  there  is 
A  bourne  past  which  I  cannot  go,  a  depth 
To  which  I  dare  not  stoop ! 


SAPPHO    IN    LEUCADIA  221 

Phaon  {bitterly) 

And  yet  you  stooped 
And  crept  to  your  Alcaeus ! 

Sappho 

Phaon !     Stop ! 
'Twas  love  of  you,  'twas  foolish  love  of  you, 
That  took  me  to  him. 

Phaon 

Then  must  love  of  him 
Take  you  from  me ! 

Sappho 

I  love  him  not ! 

Phaon  {laughing  bitterly) 

You  love 
Then  neither  him,  nor  me,  nor  any  man 
To  whom  you  sold  your  kisses? 

Sappho 

Oh  .  .  .  Enough! 

Phaon 

Enough?    More  than  enough !     To  me  you  are 
A  corpse  corrupting,  something  hateful  grown, 
A  woman  who  has  passed  away  —  dead,  dead 
To  me! 


222  SAPPHO    IN    LEU CADI  A 

Sappho 
I  .  .  .  dead  to  you? 

Pittacus  {stepping  forward) 

And  dead  you  are 
To  Lesbos  and  the  people  that  your  days 
Have  smirched  and  slavered,  like  a  serpent's  trail ! 

Sappho  turns,  in  a  mounting  frenzy,  toward  the  murmur- 
ing crowd,  iter  speech  growing  ever  more  and  more 
impassioned. 

You  hear,  my  people,  you  with  whom  I  sang 
And  lived  and  loved  and  sorrowed  —  I  shall  be 
But  as  the  dead  to  you? 

Erinna  {wailing) 

No;   Sappho,  no ! 

The  crowd  take  up  the  cry,  until  it  becomes  a  roar.  They 
advance  on  the  armed  hoplites,  shouting  defiance, 
with  cries  of  "  Sappho!  "  "  SappJw!  "  TJie  guard 
close  in,  grim  and  silent,  ready  for  the  final  stand  or 
charge. 

The  Lesbians 
She  shall  not  go ! 


SAPPHO    IN    LEU  CADI  A  223 

Other  Lesbians 
No,  she  is  one  of  us ! 

Other  Lesbians 


Long  live  the  age  of  love ! 


The  Sailors 

Let's  fight  for  it ! 

The  hoplites  are  borne  back  by  the   force  of  the  crowd, 
Inarchus  stands  ready,  awaiting  a  sign  jrom  Pittacus. 

A  Sailor 

The  sea !     The  sea  for  Pittacus  and  all 
His  tribe ! 

A  Lesbian 

Ay,  fling  them  o'er  the  cliff ! 

A  Sailor 

Put  down 
The  Tyrant ! 

A  Lesbian 

Put  an  end  to  tyranny ! 

Pittacus  signals  to  Inarchus,  and  the  girl  Omaphale  is 
dragged  forward   through   the   crowd.     She   stands 


224  SAPPHO    IN   LEU  CAD  I A 

there,  white  and  fragile,  a  slender  barrier  between 
the  two  bands  of  combatants,  Sappho,  remembering, 
becomes  almost  statuesque  in  her  immobility.  Pitta- 
cus,  seizing  the  moment,  leaps  fearlessly  into  tlie 
crowd. 

Pittacus 

Is  this  the  Kingdom,  this  the  Age  of  Love 
You  usher  in  ?     Behold  this  broken  girl, 
A  maid  deserted  for  the  Queen  of  Song 
You  clamor  of;  a  girl  unwed  and  wronged 
By  him,  this  flashing  Phaon  of  the  seas, 
This  empty  shell,  this  sabre  of  a  man !  .  .  . 

Sappho 
Cease ! 

Pittacus 

.  .  .  Whom  she  raged  and  stormed  and  plotted  for  .  .  . 

Sappho 
Cease ! 

Pittacus 

.  .  .  Whom  she  honeyed,  humored,  played  you  for  .  . 

Sappho 
Cease ! 


SAPPHO    IN    LEUCADIA  22$ 

Pittacus 

.  .  .  Whom  she  bound  and  blinded  with  her  love, 
Whom  she  has  gripped  and  held  from  this  wronged  girl, 
Whom  still  she  shakes  the  columns  of  this  State 
To  cling  to,  since  our  Council  has  decreed 
That  Phaon  and  this  girl  Omaphale 
In  public  shall  be  wed,  as  is  the  law ! 

Erinna 

Wait,  Sappho  —  plead  with  Phaon ;  plead  with  him 
For  but  a  word,  to  make  this  folly  clear ! 

Sappho 

I,  plead  with  Phaon?     And  relate  how  I 
Have  loved  him  hopelessly,  and  once  forgave 
His  wandering,  and  wooed  him  back  to  her, 
From  exile,  and  would  sing  their  marriage  ode, 
And  humbly  ask  a  word  on  why  he  cleaves 
To  earlier  lovers  ?  .  .  .  Oh,  this  is  the  end ! 

Sappho's  fury  now  amounts  to  a  white  heat  as  she  speaks. 
It  disregards  the  issue  at  hand;  it  disregards  the 
people  awaiting  her  word :  it  is  the  last  bitter  cry 
of  a  woman  broken  by  fate. 

I  hate  this  man  called  Phaon,  hate  him  .  .  .  hate 
Him  as  the  living  hate  the  thought  of  Hell ! 


226  SAPPHO    IN    LEUCADIA 

And  where  he  goes,  or  whom  of  all  his  loves 

He  weds  ...  is  naught  to  me  !     Go,  marry  him, 

Meek,  white-faced  child  .   .   .   and  learn  how  men  are 

false, 
And  how  the  world  is  built  on  lies  .  .  .  and  how 
This  thing  called  Love  is  but  a  hollow  lie, 
And  Hope  is  but  a  lie,  and  Happiness 
The  crowning  lie  of  all  your  world  of  lies ! 


Erinna  and  Atthis,  on  either  side,  support  her  quivering 
body.  Quickly  the  disordered  guard  re-forms  into 
a  solid  line.  The  people  jail  back,  murmuring  but 
bewildered,  while  Sappho  starts  up,  involuntarily, 
as  Phaon  is  crowded  back  and  turns  away  with 
Omaphale  at  his  side. 

Sappho  {weakly) 

Yet  Phaon,  it  was  all  for  you  ...  for  you ! 
Oh,  do  not  go  without  a  look,  a  word ! 

Pittacus,  at  this  cry  of  the  humbled  and  broken  woman, 
is  sure  of  his  victory,  and  at  once  signals  to  Inarchus 
and  his  men.  Phaon  hesitates  and  turns  to  Sappho, 
but  the  levelled  spears  of  the  guard  are  before 
him. 


SAPPHO    IN    LEU  CAD  I A  227 

Pittacus 

This  last  word  must  be  mine!     It  calls  the  chains 
To  bind  this  woman,  who  all  time  is  dead 
To  Lesbos !     Guards,  surround  the  prisoner. 

Sappho,  rising  and  towering  above  them  in  her  last  su- 
preme outburst  of  indignation  and  passion,  ecstatic 
in  her  rage. 

I,  dead  to  Lesbos !     Tyrant,  I  am  one 

Who  broods  and  wanders  here  as  long  as  waves 

Wash  on  your  island's  shore !     Drive  back  the  sea,  — 

But  dream  not  you  have  driven  Sappho  forth 

To  be  forgotten !     Where  a  lover  waits 

Beside  a  twilit  grove,  I  shall  be  there ! 

I,  where  he  woos  a  woman,  I  shall  breathe 

Out  through  his  lips !     Yes,  where  a  singing  girl 

Goes  with  her  heavy  pitcher  to  the  spring 

At  earliest  dawn,  I  shall  beside  her  walk, 

And  at  the  well-curb  I  shall  wait  for  her ! 

When  sailors  lift  their  sails,  'tis  I  shall  breathe 

Across  the  waves  to  them !     When  man  and  maid 

Are  joined  in  one,  my  voice  shall  chant  their  hymn ! 

And  where  the  olive-pickers  in  the  sun 

Together  sing,  I  shall  be  in  their  midst ! 

And  where  a  net  is  dipped,  the  beryl  waves 

Shall  break  in  little  murmurs  with  my  name ! 

And  where  the  goat-herd  tends  his  flock,  and  croons 


228  SAPPHO    IN    LEUCADIA 

The  songs  that  once  were  mine,  and  where  the  men 
Who  shape  the  timbers  in  the  shipyard's  din 
Make  labor  glad  with  music,  /  shall  live ! 
Yes,  where  a  youth  still  loves,  a  girl  still  waits, 
If  Sappho,  I  shall  not  have  passed  away  I 

Curtain 


SAPPHO    IN    LEU CAD  I A 


229 


ACT    FOUR 

The  scene  is  the  same  as  in  Act  One,  on  the  cliffs  of  Leu- 
cadia.  It  is  one  year  later,  close  to  the  hour  of  sunset. 
The  rising  curtain  discloses  Erinna  and  an  old 
Soothsayer,  muffled  and  cloaked.  As  the  curtain 
goes  up  lie  is  stooping  over  the  bronze  fire-basin  set 
in  marble,  stained  ana  blackoted  with  smoke.  Erinna 
sits  watching. 

Erinna 
But  are  you  man  or  woman? 

Soothsayer 

Neither.    Man 
I  used  to  be  !    But  much  of  me  has  died ! 

Erinna 
How  long  have  you  been  blind? 

Soothsayer  {bitterly) 

It  seems  to  me 
That  I  have  been  a  blind  man  from  my  birth. 


230  SAPPHO    IN    LEUCADIA 

Erinna 

Yet  by  the  drifting  flame  and  flight  of  birds 
You  have  foretold  the  future,  and  worked  cures 
Where  other  charms  have  failed? 

Soothsayer 

Ay,  by  the  flight 
Of  birds,  by  smoke,  by  cocks  devouring  corn, 
By  winds,  by  meteors,  by  red-hot  iron, 
By  divers  entrails,  and  the  drip  of  wax 
In  water,  I  have  many  wonders  worked ! 

He  gropes  and  feels  about  the  altar,  nervously. 

What  is  it,  maiden,  that  you  wish  to  know? 

Erinna 
First  tell  me,  what  am  I? 

Soothsayer  (peering  into  space) 

I  seem  to  see 
A  thrush  that  crouches  by  a  nightingale, 
Yet  neither  sings. 

Erinna 

But  once  I  used  to  sing. 


SAPPHO    IN   LEU  CADI  A  23 1 

Soothsayer 

You  are  a  singer,  eh?     When  I  was  young 
I  knew  a  man  of  Leucas  who  would  take 
A  hollow  shin-bone  pierced  with  many  vents 
And  play  us  cunning  tunes.     In  Lesbos,  too, 
I  heard  a  girl  called  Sappho  sing  .  .  . 

Erinna 
Heard  Sappho ! 

Soothsayer 

Ay,  the  Tenth  Muse  after  whom 
The  older  Nine  once  walked ! 

Erinna 

Yes,  yes ;   I  know  — 
Sir,  it  is  for  a  sister  that  I  ask 
This  augury. 

Soothsayer 
What  has  befallen  her? 

Erinna 

She  is  sick 
In  heart 

Soothsayer 
Aught  else? 


232  SAPPHO    IN   LEUCADIA 

Erinna 
And  most  unhappy. 

Soothsayer 

Ah, 
Unhappy !     Has  she  loved,  or  has  she  known 
A  man  unworthy  her? 

Erinna 

Such  man  she  knew ! 
And  now  the  loneliness  of  all  the  world 
Weighs  on  her  soul  and  turns  her  troubled  dreams 
To  olden  days  and  dark  imaginings. 

Soothsayer 
And  now  her  love  is  dead? 

Erinna 

That  would  I  know. 
She  mourns  by  day,  and  never  speaks  his  name, 
But  in  the  night  she  weeps  and  cries  to  him 
And  through  her  dreams  his  name  forever  sounds. 
Yet  when  she  wakes  her  heart  seems  dead  again, 
And  hour  by  hour  she  broods  beside  the  sea. 

Soothsayer 
Thinks  she  this  lover  dead? 


SAPPHO    IN    LEUCADIA  233 

Erinna 

He  is  not  dead. 

Soothsayer 
How  could  she  know  he  is  not  dead? 

Erinna 

I  sent 
To  Lesbos  and  made  sure  he  lives. 

Soothsayer 

And  when 

You  told  her  of  it  ? 

Erinna 

Then  she  neither  wept 
Nor  laughed  nor  spake  ! 

Soothsayer 

She  must  have  suffered  deep ! 

Erinna 

O  tell  me  how  much  longer  it  will  last, 
And  what  will  come  of  it ! 

Soothsayer 

Take  then  this  seed 
And  cast  it  on  the  flame. 


234  SAPPHO    IN   LEUCADIA 

Erinna 
What  seed  is  it  ? 

Soothsayer 
Sea-fennel  mixed  with  myrrh.     But  was  it  cast  ? 

Erinna  goes  to  the  altar  and  casts  the  seed  on  the  smoul- 
dering fire. 

Erinna 
'Tis  on  the  flame. 

Soothsayer 

The  smoke  .  .  .  how  does  it  rise? 

Erinna 
It  rises  in  a  column,  thin  and  straight. 

Soothsayer 

And  still  so  rises? 

Erinna 

No  ...  for  now  it  drifts 
And  wavers,  in  a  broken  cloud. 

Soothsayer 

Enough ! 
Now  take  this  sparrow.     Hold  it  in  your  hand, 
And  face  the  east.  .  .  .  Now  let  the  bird  go  free ! 


SAPPHO    IN   LEUCADIA  235 

Erinna 

'Tis  free  !     'Tis  gone  ! 

Soothsayer 
How  has  it  flown? 

Erinna 

It  flew 
Beyond  the  cliffs !     'Tis  lost  within  the  Sea ! 
What  can  such  things  portend? 

The  Soothsayer  is  silent,  wrapt  in  thought. 

What  do  they  mean? 

Soothsayer 

It  means  good  news,  and  bad.  .  .  .  Go  you  and  bring 
This  woman  to  me  ...  I  must  speak  with  her ! 

Erinna 

Then  gently,  speak  to  her  the  darker  news; 
Oh,  give  her  peace  —  for  she  has  need  of  it ! 

{Exit) 

Soothsayer  {disclosing  himself  as  Phaon) 

This  is  the  hour  where  life  and  death  divide, 
Where  all  the  rivers  of  the  world  hold  back 
And  wait  some  new  beginning  ...  or  the  end ! 


236  SAPPHO    IN   LEUCADIA 

O  Aphrodite,  you  who  leaned  across 

My  oar  with  luminous  eyes  and  filled  the  gloom 

With  glory,  help  me,  help  me  in  this  hour ! 

Sappho  enters,  slowly,  with  Erinna.  Sappho  is  robed 
in  white,  and  on  her  hair  is  a  heavy  crown  of  dark 
violets,  making  paler  her  pale  face.  She  does  not 
look  towards  Phaon  —  her  dreamy  gaze  is  bent  on 
the  Sea. 

Sappho 

What  sail  is  that?    I  thought  I  knew  each  ship 
That  passes  here ! 

Erinna 

'Tis  one  from  Lesbos  come. 

Sappho 

From  Lesbos  !    Lesbos  !     O  how  frail  a  thing 
To  face  so  many  seas,  to  creep  so  far 
From  home !     I  wonder  if  its  timbers  thrill 
And  ache  for  Lesbos  now?    If  through  its  keel 
Some  wordless  anguish  burns,  when  e'er  the  name 
Of  Lesbos  comes  to  it  ...  as  in  my  heart ! 

Erinna 

This  prophet  fares  from  Lesbos,  and  would  speak 
With  you  alone ! 

(Exit) 


SAPPHO    IN    LEUCADIA  237 

Sappho  slowly  turns  and  studies  the  soothsayer,  who 
remains  cloaked.  TJie  sunlight  falls  clear  and  gold 
on  the  two  figures. 

Sappho  (murmurs) 
This  sail  from  Lesbos  fares ! 

Phaon 

Ay,  from  the  land  that  cast  Alcaeus  out, 

A  broken  exile,  into  Sicily; 

The  land  that  once  was  known  as  Sappho's  isle, 

And  shall  again  be  hers. 


■&* 


Sappho 
What  man  are  you? 

Phaon 

One  who  would  wait  and  seek  you  out  beyond 
The  uttermost  unkeeled  domains  of  Xight ! 

Sappho 
Who  .  .  . 

Phaon 

One  who  comes  to  bear  you  home  again, 
Still  crowned  with  ivy  and  wild  olive  as 
You  came  from  Athens ! 


238  SAPPHO    IN    LEUCADIA 

Sappho 

Phaon ! 

Phaon 

Sappho ! 

Sappho 

Oh, 
Why  have  you  followed  me?     Why  have  you  come 
To  this  grey  land  that  is  my  Underworld 
Of  ghosts  and  dreams  ? 

Phaon 
To  take  you  home  again ! 

Sappho 


It  is  too  late ! 


Phaon 


Nay,  you  have  been  recalled  — 
I  bear  the  Lesbian  Council's  word  to  bring 
You  out  of  exile !     Lesbos  cried  for  you 
Till  Pittacus  himself  was  forced  to  bow 
Unto  their  clamor !     Athens  also  rose 
And  said  you  should  return.  .  .  .  And  I, 
Who  loved  you  once,  and  love  you  evermore. 
Now  plead  with  you  to  come. 


SAPPHO    IN    LEUCADIA  239 

Sappho  (musingly) 

It  is  too  late ! 
Dear  hills  of  sun  and  gloom  and  green  .  .  .  soft  hills 
That  I  shall  see  no  more ! 

Phaon 

Nay,  Sappho,  come  — 
They  wait  and  ask  for  you,  but  not  as  I. 
They  beg  the  glad  bird-throated  girl  they  crowned 
With  violets,  the  Voice  they  listened  to 
At  twilight  when  the  brief  day's  work  was  done. 
I  beg  the  woman  who  made  all  my  world 
A  dusk  of  warmth  and  rapture  .  .  .  her  to  whom 
My  lonely  heart  has  yearned  ! 

Sappho  {looking  up) 

Omaphale  — 
Where  waits  Omaphale  ?    Where  are  the  loves 
You  laughed  and  whispered  to  this  many  a  year? 

Phaon 

There  is  but  one  great  love  in  any  life, 
The  rest  are  ghosts,  to  mock  its  memories. 
All  through  the  weary  months  I  wanted  you, 
Cried  out  for  you,  and  had  to  come  to  you ! 


240  SAPPHO    IN   LEUCADIA 

Sappho  {slowly) 
And  had  to  come  to  me !     And  wanted  me  ! 

Phaon 

Great  wrong  I  wrought  you,  but  I  was  deceived, 
And  deeply  I  have  suffered ! 

Sappho 

Suffered?    When? 

Phaon 

The  loss  of  you  .  «  .  the  ache  and  emptiness 

Of  one  who  knew  all  love,  and  is  denied; 

The  torture  of  the  days  that  are  no  more ; 

The  terror  and  the  anguish  born  of  ways 

That  one  great  love  illumed,  that  one  lost  voice 

Still  like  a  fading  lute  with  sorrow  haunts ! 

Turn  not  away  .  .  .  look  at  me,  Sappho.  .  .  .  Come, 

Come  back  with  me  where  still  the  singing  girls 

Laugh,  ruddy-ankled,  round  the  Lesbian  vats, 

And  every  hill  and  lowland  is  your  home, 

And  deep  throats  from  the  laden  galleys  sing 

By  night  of  love  and  women  as  of  old ! 

Sappho  (still  wrapt  in  thought,  wistfully) 
How  far  away  those  twilight  voices  are! 


SAPPHO    IN    LEU  CAD  I A  24 1 

Phaon 

But  still  they  chant  your  words,  and  wait  for  you, 
And  down  the  solemn  Dorian  scale  the  pipes 
Wander  and  plead,  and  note  by  note  still  wake 
With  soft  ^Eolian  rapture.     Still  come  back 
Where  droning  flute  and  harp  shall  drowse  away 
This  wordless  hunger  that  has  paled  your  face, 
Where  every  lover  knows  your  music  still, 
And  every  meadow  keeps  your  voice  alive, 
Where  lonely  cliffs  reach  out  their  arms  for  you  ... 
Come  back,  and  be  at  rest  I 

Sappho 

O  island  home 
Where  we  were  happy  once ! 

Phaon 

And  shall  again 
Be  happy,  where  the  golden  vetch  is  thick 
Along  the  cliffs,  and  cool  the  olive-groves, 
And  all  the  shadowy  fir-lands  and  the  hills 
Lean  tender  purple  to  /Eolia's  coast, 
And  all  the  harbor-lights  still  wait  and  watch, 
Like  weary  eyes,  for  you  to  come  again ! 

Sappho 

Yes,  well  I  know  them  where  their  paths  of  gold 
Once  lay  like  wavering  music  on  the  sea ! 


242  SAPPHO    IN    LEUCADIA 

Phaon 

And  there  like  wine  made  sweet  with  honey,  life 
Shall  flow  reluctantly ! 

Sappho 

O  sea-washed  home 
Where  we,  so  long  ago,  were  happy  once ! 

Phaon 

I  brought  a  sorrow  to  that  home,  I  know  — 
But  I  have  suffered  for  it,  and  have  learned 
How  all  the  paths  of  all  the  oceans  lead 
To  you  —  you  —  you ! 

Sappho 

Oh  speak  not  thus  to  me  ■ 
It  is  too  late,  my  Phaon. 

'Twas  your  hand 
That  crushed  the  silver  goblet  of  my  heart, 
And  now  the  wine  is  spilt;    the  page  is  read, 
And  from  the  tale  the  earlier  glory  gone ; 
The  torch  has  failed  amid  the  falling  dusk, 
The  dream  has  passed,  and  rapture  is  a  word 
Unknown  to  my  sad  heart,  and  music  sounds 
Mournful  as  evening  bells  on  lonely  seas. 

Phaon 

But  Lesbos  calls,  and  still  you  will  not  hear; 
Our  home  is  waiting,  and  you  will  not  come ! 


SAPPHO    IN    LEU  CAD  I A  243 

Sappho 

Lightly  you  loved  me,  Phaon,  long  ago; 
And  there  were  other  arms  unknown  to  me 
That  folded  over  you,  though  none  more  fond 
Than  mine  that  fell  so  wing-like  round  your  head. 
And  there  were  other  eyes  that  drooped  as  mine 
Despairingly  before  your  pleading  mouth. 

Phaon 

"  I  have  loved  oft  and  lightly  that,  at  last, 
I  might  love  you !  "    Can  you  remember  not? 

Sappho 

But  many  were  the  nights  I  wept,  and  learned 
How  sorrowful  is  all  divided  love, 
How  we  who  give  too  often  .  .  .  never  give, 
How  one  voice  must  be  lost,  and  being  lost, 
May  be  remembered  most. 

Phaon 

But  you  alone 
It  was,  pale-throated  woman,  that  I  loved ! 
Through  outland  countries  have  I  seen  your  eyes, 
And  like  a  flower  through  all  my  perilous  ways 
Your  face  has  gone  before  me,  and  your  voice 
Beyond  dim  islands  and  mysterious  seas 


244 


SAPPHO    IN   LEUCADIA 


Has  drawn  me  to  you,  calling  from  the  dunes 
Where  Summer  once  hung  low  above  our  hands, 
And  we,  as  children,  dreamed  to  dreaming  waves, 
And  all  the  world  seemed  made  for  you  and  me ! 

Sappho 

It  is  too  late;   the  wine  of  life  is  spilt, 

The  shore-lark  of  our  youth  has  flown  away, 

And  all  the  Summer  vanished. 

One  brief  year 
Ago  I  could  have  gone  to  any  home, 
A  wanderer  with  you  o'er  troubled  seas; 
And  slept  beside  your  fire  content,  and  fared 
Still  on  again  between  green  hills  and  strange, 
And  echoing  valleys  where  the  eagled  pines 
Were  full  of  gloom,  and  many  waters  sang,  — 
Still  on  to  some  low  plain  or  highland  coign 
Remembered  not  of  men,  where  we  had  made 
Our  home  amid  the  music  of  the  Spring, 
Letting  life's  twilight  sands  glide  thro'  the  glass 
So  golden-slow,  so  glad,  no  plaintive  chime 
Could  e'er  be  blown  to  us  across  the  dusk, 
From  Life's  grey  towers  of  many-tongued  regret ! 
Then  I  had  been  most  happy  at  your  side, 
Easing  my  exiled  heart  with  homely  thoughts 
And  turning  these  sad  hands  to  simple  things. 
In  our  low  oven  that  should  gleam  by  night 


SAPPHO    IN   LEUCADIA  245 

Baking  my  wheaten  loaves,  and  with  my  wheel 
Spinning  the  milky  wool,  and  light  of  heart 
Dipping  my  brazen  pitcher  in  the  spring 
That  bubbled  by  our  door. 

And  then,  perchance, 
(O  anodyne  for  all  dark-memoried  days !) 
To  feel  the  touch  of  little  hands,  and  hold 
A  child  —  your  child  and  mine  —  close  on  this  breast, 
And  croon  it  songs  and  tunes  quite  meaningless 
Unto  the  bosom  where  no  milk  has  been  — 
Yes,  fonder  than  the  poolside  lutings  low 
Of  dreaming  frogs  to  their  Arcadian  god ! 
There  had  I  borne  to  you  a  sailor  folk, 
A  tawny-haired  swart  brood  of  boys,  as  brave 
As  mine  old  Phaon  was,  cubbed  by  the  sea 
And  buffeted  by  wind  and  brume;   and  I, 
On  winter  nights  when  all  the  waves  were  black, 
In  musing  wise  had  told  them  tales  and  dreams 
Of  Lesbian  days,  e'en  though  the  words  should  sound 
To  my  remembering  heart,  so  far  from  home, 
As  mournful  as  the  wind  to  imprisoned  men; 
—  Old  tales  they  should  re-tell  long  ages  hence 
Unto  their  children's  children  by  the  fire 
When  loud  the  dark  South-West  that  brings  the  rain 
Moaned  round  their  walls !     And  in  more  happy  days 
By  some  pale  golden  summer  moon,  when  dim 
The  waters  were  —  mysterious  eves  of  dusk 
And  music,  stars,  and  silence  and  regret  — 


246  SAPPHO    IN   LEUCADIA 

Singing  into  my  saddened  heart  should  come 
Soft  thoughts,  to  bloom  in  words  as  roses  break 
And  blow  and  wither  and  are  gone ;   and  we 
Reckless  of  time,  should  waken  not  and  find 
Our  hearts  grown  old,  but  evermore  live  on 
As  do  the  stars  and  Earth's  untroubled  trees, 
While  seasons  came,  like  birds,  and  went  again,  — 
Though  Greece  and  her  green  islands  were  no  more, 
And  all  her  marbled  power  should  pass  away, 
And  empires,  like  an  arch,  should  crumble  down, 
And  kings  should  live  and  die,  and  one  by  one 
Like  flames  their  lofty  cities  should  go  out ! 

Phaon 

Your  voice  still  falls  on  my  dry  heart  like  dew ! 

I  hear  you  speak,  and  know  not  what  you  say, 

For  like  a  bell  your  name  swings  through  my  dreams ! 

And  all  my  being  throbs  and  cries  for  you ! 

Come  back  with  me ;   but  come,  and  I  will  speak 

A  thousand  gentle  words  for  each  poor  tear 

That  dimmed  your  eyes  !     Come  back,  and  I  will  crown 

Your  days  with  love  so  enduring  it  shall  light 

The  eternal  stars  to  bed  ! 

Sappho 

Ask  me  no  more,  — 
I  warmed  the  whimpering  whelps  of  Passion  once 
In  this  white  breast  of  mine  —  but,  now,  full  grown, 


SAPPHO    IN   LEU  CADI  A 

They  seem  to  stalk  me  naked  through  the  world ! 

Too  fond  I  now  should  bend  unto  the  fierce 

Necessity  of  bliss,  and  in  each  glow 

Of  golden  anguish  yearn  forever  toward 

Some  quiet  gloom  where  we  can  never  walk! 

These  feet  of  mine  have  known  too  many  homes 

To  claim  one  door,  and  close  it  on  the  world ! 

This  bosom  now  is  hot  as  /Etna's,  torn 

And  seared  with  fires  that  long  since  passed  away! 

Yet  had  you  only  loved  me,  as  I  asked  — 

How  humble  I  had  been,  how  I  had  tried 

From  this  poor  broken  twilight  to  rebuild 

The  Dream,  and  from  its  ashes  to  restore 

The  Temple ! 

Phaon 

But  I  loved  you  then,  and  love 
You  now !     The  torn  plume  of  the  wing  I  take, 
The  ruined  rose,  and  all  the  empty  cruse; 
Here  I  accept  the  bitter  with  the  sweet, 
The  autumnal  sorrow  with  the  autumnal  gold; 
Tears  shall  go  unregretted,  and  much  pain 
Gladly  I  take,  if  grief,  in  truth,  and  you 
Can  still  come  hand  in  hand  to  me. 

Sappho 

No!   No! 
For  good  were  life  if  every  lonely  bough 
Could  lure  again  its  vanished  nightingale ! 


247 


248  SAPPHO    IN   LEUCADIA 

—  If  all  that  luting  music  of  first  love 
Could  be  recalled  down  years  grown  desolate  I 
Lightly  they  sing  who  love  and  are  beloved; 
And  men  shall  lightly  listen ;   but  the  heart 
That  has  been  broken  and  must  hide  its  wound 
In  music,  is  remembered  through  the  years ! 
It  was  not  much  I  asked  in  those  old  days  — 
For  men  have  wider  missions  than  we  know. 
'Tis  not,  thro'  all  their  moods,  they  hunger  for 
Our  poor  pale  faces.     As  a  flame  at  sea 
They  seek  us  in  the  fog,  and  then  forget. 
'Tis  when  by  night  the  battle-noise  has  died; 
'Tis  when  the  port  is  won,  and  wind  and  storm 
Are  past;    'tis  when  the  heart  for  solace  aches; 
'Tis  when  they  stop  to  rest  in  darkling  woods, 
Or  under  alien  stars  the  fire  is  lit, 
And  when  regret  makes  deep  some  idle  hour. 
Then  would  we  have  our  name  sing  throbbingly 
Thro'  some  beloved  heart,  soft  as  a  bird,  — 
And  swing  with  it  —  swing  sweet  as  silver  bells ! 
Not  all  your  crowded  day  I  hoped  to  see 
You  turn  to  me:   but  when  some  little  flower 
Shone  through  the  dust  and  lured  a  softer  mood, 
I  hoped  your  troubled  eyes  would  seek  my  eyes ! 
And  in  those  days  that  I  first  cried  for  you 
And  went  uncomforted,  had  you  returned, 
I  could  have  washed  your  careless  feet  with  tears, 
And  unto  you  still  grown,  and  gone  thro'  sun 


SAPPHO    IN    LEUCADIA  249 

And  gloom  beside  you,  and  still  in  the  bliss 
Of  motherhood  and  most  mysterious  birth 
Forgotten  ancient  wrongs ! 

Phaon 

Why  brood  on  things 
Turned  into  dust  and  ashes  long  ago, 
When  softly  dawn  by  golden  dawn,  and  eve 
By  opal  eve,  Earth  whispers :   Life  is  ours ! 

Sappho 
Once  I  could  listen  to  you,  e'er  you  go;  — 

Phaon 

And  still  you  bid  me  go  ? 

Sappho 

Oh,  had  you  gone 
While  still  the  glory  of  my  dreaming  fell 
Like  sunlight  round  you,  —  had  you  even  died, 
I  should  have  loved  you  now,  as  women  love 
The  wonder  and  the  silence  of  the  West 
When  with  sad  eyes  they  breathe  a  last  farewell 
To  where  the  black  ships  go  so  proudly  out,  — 
W7atching  with  twilit  faces  by  the  Sea 
Till  down  some  golden  rift  the  fading  sails 
Darken  and  glow  and  pale  amid  the  dusk, 
And  gleam  again,  and  pass  into  the  gloom ! 


250  SAPPHO    IN    LEUCADIA 

Phaon 

Then  once  you  loved  me  !     Let  me  know  no  more ! 
The  cry  of  that  old  love  shall  lead  you  back 
To  me,  and  make  us  one ! 

Sappho 

Nay,  Home  I  go  — 
Home,  Home  afar,  where  unknown  seas  forlorn 
On  gloomy  towers  and  darkling  bastions  foam, 
And  lonely  eyes  look  out  for  one  dim  sail 
That  never  comes,  and  men  have  said  there  is 
No  sun.  —  And  though  I  go  forth  soon  no  fear 
Shall  cling  to  me,  since  I  a  thousand  times 
Ere  this  have  died  a  little  day  by  day; 
And  sun  by  sun  the  grave  insatiable 
Has  taken  to  its  gloom  some  happier  grace, 
And  hour  by  hour  some  glory  old  engulfed, 
And  left  me  like  a  house  untenanted. 

Phaon 

No  more  of  this !     I  need  you ;   still  turn  back 
With  me,  and  let  one  riotous  flame  of  bliss 
Forever  burn  away  these  withered  griefs, 
As  fire  eats  clean  the  autumn  mountain-side; 
For  all  this  sweet  sad-eyed  dissuasiveness 
Endears  like  dew  the  flower  of  final  love ! 


SAPPHO    IN    LEV  CADI  A  25 1 

Sappho  {abstracted) 

—  Yes,  I  have  died  ere  this  a  thousand  times; 
For  on  the  dusky  borderlands  of  dream, 
Across  the  twilight  of  dim  summer  dawns 

Before  the  hooves  of  pearl  throbbed  down  the  wind, 
And  listening  to  the  birds  amid  green  boughs 
Where  tree  and  hill  and  field  were  touched  with  fire, 

—  Hearing,  yet  hearing  not,  thro'  all  the  thin 
Near  multitudinous  lament  of  Dawn's 

Low  rustling  leaves,  stirred  by  some  opal  wing,  — 
Oft  have  I  seemed  to  feel  my  soul  come  home ! 
And  faint  and  strange  on  my  half- wakened  ears 
Would  fall  the  flute  and  pipe  of  early  birds; 
And  strange  the  odor  of  the  opening  flowers; 
And  strange  the  world  would  lie,  and  stranger  still 
The  quiet  rain  along  the  glimmering  grass: 
And  Earth,  sad  with  so  many  memories 
Of  bliss,  and  beautiful  with  vague  regrets, 
Would  take  on  poignant  glories,  strange  as  death ! 

Phaon 

What  is  this  dim-eyed  madness  and  dark  talk 
Of  death? 

Sappho 

Hush !   I  have  seen  Death  pass  a  hand 
Along  old  wounds,  and  they  have  ached  no  more ! 


252  SAPPHO    IN    LEUCADIA 

And  with  one  little  word  lull  pain  away, 
And  heal  long-wasting  tears ! 


Phaon 

But  these  soft  lips 
Were  made  not  for  the  touch  of  mold ! 


Sappho 

Time  was 
I  thought  Death  stern,  and  scattered  at  his  door 
My  dearest  roses,  that  his  feet  might  come 
And  softly  go ! 

Phaon 

This  body  white  was  made 
Not  for  the  grave,  —  this  flashing  wonder  of 
The  hand  for  hungry  worms ! 

Sappho 

Oh,  quiet  as 
Soft  rain  on  water  shall  it  seem,  and  sad 
Only  as  life's  most  dulcet  music  is, 
And  dark  as  but  a  bride's  first  dreaded  night 
Is  dark  —  mild,  mild  as  mirrored  stars  ! 

But  you,  ■ 
You  will  forget  me,  Phaon ;   there  the  sting ! 
The  sorrow  of  the  grave  is  not  its  green, 


SAPPHO    IN   LEUCADIA  253 

Nor  yet  the  salt  tear  on  its  violet; 

It  is  the  years  that  bring  the  grey  neglect, 

When  tangled  grasses  smooth  the  lessening  mound, 

When  leaf  by  leaf  the  tree  of  sorrow  wanes, 

And  on  the  urn  unseen  the  tarnish  comes, 

And  tears  are  not  so  bitter  as  they  were  I 

Time  sings  so  low  to  our  bereaved  ear, 

So  softly  breathes,  that,  bud  by  falling  bud, 

The  garden  of  our  Grief  all  empty  lies, 

And  unregretted  dips  the  languid  oar 

Of  Charon  thro'  the  gloom,  and  then  is  gone ! 


Phaon 

Red-lipped  and  breathing  woman,  made  for  love, 
How  can  you  talk  of  Death,  or  dream  that  one 
Who  ever  looked  upon  you  can  forget? 


Sappho 

You  will  forget  me,  though  you  would  or  not ! 
Yes,  in  some  other  Spring  when  other  lips 
Let  fall  my  name,  you  will  remember  not !  — 
Yet  come  and  let  me  look  into  your  eyes, 
Thus  quietly,  as  women  view  the  dead, 
And  dream  of  far-off  things !     As  in  farewell, 
Still  let  me  feel  your  hand  about  my  hand  i 


254  SAPPHO    IN    LEU  CADI  A 

Phaon 

Your  touch  burns  thro'  my  blood  like  fire.     You  have 
Not  changed.     Still  must  I  kiss  the  heavy  rose 
Of  your  red  mouth ! 

Sappho 

No,  not  till  Death  has  leaned 
And  kissed  it  white  as  this  white  cliff,  and  robed 
This  body  for  its  bridegroom ! 

Phaon 

Honey-pale 
And  passion-worn  you  seem,  and  I  am  blind 
With  looking  on  your  beauty.     Sappho,  come  — 
Come  close  into  my  arms. 

Sappho 

It  is  too  late; 
Forth  to  a  sterner  lover  must  I  fare ! 

Phaon 
Mine  flamed  your  first  love,  and  shall  glow  your  last ! 

Sappho 
Then  meet  this  One,  and  know! 


SAPPHO    IN    LEU  CAD  I A  255 

Phaon 


The  hounds  of  Hell 


And  Aidoneus  himself  — 


Sappho 
Hush ! 

Phaon 

You  I  seek ! 
The  cadence  of  your  voice  enraptures  me, 
The  very  breathing  of  your  bosom  turns 
My  blood  to  sweeping  fire,  and  leaves  me  faint 
With  longing,  makes  me  flash  and  burn  with  love ! 
And  still  you  would  elude  me  —  but  this  arm 
Is  strong,  and  I  shall  know  no  other  god  — ■ 

Sappho 
Cease  !   son  of  passion ! 

Phaon 

Not  until  these  arms, 
Shall  hold  and  fold  about  you,  not  until  — 

Sappho 

By  all  the  hours  you  darkened,  by  the  love 
You  crushed  and  left  embittered,  hear  me  speak ! 


256  SAPPHO    IN    LEUCADIA 

Phaon  {bitterly) 
Thus  women  change  —  and  in  their  time  forget ! 

Sappho 

There  lies  the  sorrow  —  if  we  could  forget ! 
For  one  brief  hour  you  gave  me  all  the  love 
That  women  ask,  and  then  with  cruel  hands 
Set  free  the  singing  voices  from  the  cage, 
And  tore  the  glory  from  the  waiting  rose; 
And  through  life's  empty  garden  still  I  dreamed 
And  called  for  Love,  and  walked  unsatisfied. 
Love !   Love  !     'Tis  we  who  lose  it  know  it  best ! 
By  day  a  fire  and  wonder,  and  by  night 
A  wheeling  star  that  sinks  in  Mystery. 
Love !   Love  !     It  is  the  blue  of  bluest  skies ; 
The  farthest  green  of  waters  touched  with  sun  I 
It  is  the  calm  of  moonlight  and  of  leaves, 
And  yet  the  troubled  music  of  the  Sea ! 
It  is  the  frail  original  of  faith, 
The  timorous  thing  that  seems  afraid  of  light, 
Yet,  loosened,  sweeps  the  world,  consuming  time 
And  tinsel  empires,  grim  with  blood  and  war ! 
It  is  the  voiceless  want  and  loneliness 
Of  blighted  lands  made  wonderful  with  rain ! 
Regret  it  is,  and  song,  and  wistful  tears ; 
The  rose  upon  the  tomb  of  afterthought, 
The  only  wine  of  life,  that  on  the  lip 


SAPPHO    IN   LEU CAD  I A 

Of  Thirst  turns  not  to  ashes !     Change  and  time 

And  sorrow  kneel  to  it,  for  at  its  touch 

The  world  is  beautiful  .  .  .  the  world  is  bom! 

Phaon 

Your  words  were  ever  tuned  to  madden  men, 
And  I  am  drunk  with  these  sweet  pleadings,  soft 
As  voices  over  many  waters  blown ! 
And  thus  you  come  to  me  against  your  will ! 

Sappho 

Hear  me,  for  by  those  gods  you  fear  the  most 
There  is  a  fire  within  me  burns  away 
All  pity,  and  some  Hate,  half-caged,  may  eat 
Thro'  its  last  bar  ! 

Phaon 

Not  till  your  mouth's 
Sad  warmth  droops  unto  mine ! 

Sappho 

Yours  once  I  was, 
And  once  I  watched  you  spurn  and  tread  me  down 
And  long  amid  my  perished  roses  lay, 
Broken  with  sorrow,  but  still  held  my  peace ! 
But  now  I  warn  you  that  the  tide  has  turned ! 


257 


258  SAPPHO    IN    LEUCADIA 

Touch  nevermore  these  hands,  for  my  torn  heart 

Is  desperate,  and  given  not  to  words ! 

Quite  humble  have  I  been,  and  duly  spake 

My  lips  as  you  once  asked  that  they  should  speak! 

But  now  this  empty  husk  from  which  you  drained 

Life's  darkest  wine,  shall  die  in  its  own  way. 

Yes,  yes;   as  water  sighs  and  whispers  through 

Some  hollow-throated  urn,  so  now  through  me 

Shall  steal  contentment,     Touch  me  not !     Stand  back 

Or  if  you  will,  locked  arm  in  reckless  arm, 

Come  with  me,  down,  down  to  this  crawling  Deep ! 

Phaon 
What  madness  can  this  be  ? 

Sappho 

The  ocean  waves 
Are  softer  with  their  dead,  and  autumn  winds 
More  kindly  are  with  leaves,  than  mortal  love 
With  women,  for  it  kills  and  buries  not 

Phaon 

You  murmur  of  the  dead,  when  warm  and  quick 
You  breathe  before  me,  and  bewilder  thought ! 
With  but  the  wine-like  rapture  of  your  voice 
You  make  me  desperate ! 


SAPPHO    IN    LEUCADIA  259 

Sappho 

Nay,  touch  me  not ! 

Phaon 

You  shall  come  with  me,  Sappho !      I  alone 
Dare  not  go  back.     I  carry  in  my  breast 
The  edict  of  the  Council.     It  commands 
I  bring  you  safely  home,  and  should  I  fail 
A  thousand  hands  would  beat  me  to  the  sea. 
But  in  this  breast  I  bear  a  second  scroll, 
A  more  imperious  message,  writ  and  sealed 
Of  Love  itself.     I  shall  no  longer  be 
Denied  or  trifled  with,  though  I  must  tear 
You  like  a  rooted  flower  from  where  you  wait; 
Though  I  must  take  you,  like  a  fluttered  bird, 
And  bruise  you  in  the  taking  !     Come  with  me ! 

Sappho 
Lay  not  unholy  hands  upon  the  dead. 

Phaon 

Yes,  I  shall  bear  you  forth,  as  from  a  wall 
That  totters  or  a  chamber  wrapped  in  flame ! 

He  seizes  her  resisting  body.  His  strength  overpowers 
her,  and  she  lies  back  in  his  arms,  panting.  There 
she  catches  sight  of  the  knife  in  his  belt. 


260  SAPPHO    IN    LEUCADIA 

Sappho 
Nay,  Phaon,  I  shall  go,  if  you  but  wait  — 

Phaon 
Too  long  I  waited ! 

Sappho 

Take  me  not  by  force, 
Oh,  not  by  force  now,  Phaon !     Let  me  come 
Quite  willingly,  made  ready  for  your  arms  — 

Phaon 
I  shall  release  you  not ! 

Sappho 

But  let  me  breathe 
One  brief  farewell,  one  broken  last  good-by 
To  all  my  older  life.  .  .  .  Then  you  can  come 
And  take  me  where  you  will,  and  not  a  word 
Of  anger  or  lament  shall  pass  my  lips ! 

She  forces  him  about  so  that  they  face  the  sea. 

Then  I  shall  go  almost  without  regret; 
For  ghost-like  even  now  I  am ;   these  eyes 
Wave-worn  as  Leucothea's  eyes  must  seem, 
And  I  am  tired,  and  it  is  good  to  sleep. 
So  alone,  sad  Mother  Ocean,  let  me  rest; 


SAPPHO    IN    LEUCADIA  261 

Alone,  grey  Mother,  take  me  in  your  arms  — 
Whose  sorrow  must  have  been  as  deep  as  mine, 
Who  loved  in  times  I  know  not  of,  and  lost, 
And  still  must  murmur  of  it  night  and  day 
Along  your  mournful-noted  shores ! 

Phaon 

What  gods 
Are  these  you  call  upon  in  ecstasy? 

Sappho 

I  call  not  on  your  gods,  or  mine.     For  they 

Live  high  above  our  Earth,  and  scarce  would  knew 

The  odor  of  my  incense,  or  how  white 

My  piteous  altars  stood !     Too  like  the  Moon 

That  looks  so  disimpassioned  over  men 

And  their  tumultuous  cities  crowned  with  pain, 

Smile  down  the  gods  on  our  tight-lipped  despairs ! 

Yet  far  I  am  from  home  to  go,  and  far 

From  any  voice  to  comfort  me  beyond 

The  cypress  twilight  and  the  hemlock  gloom ! 

But  take  me,  Mournful  Mother,  while  I  feel 

Burn  through  my  blood  this  bitter  ecstasy ! 

Oh,  take  me,  Mother  Ocean,  in  your  arms, 

And  let  the  cooling  waters  lave  and  wash 

All  sorrow  from  my  eyes  and  rock  the  pain 

From  my  poor  heart ! 


262  SAPPHO    IN   LEUCADIA 

Phaon 

Upon  my  heart  your  heart 
Shall  rock  in  weary  slumber  and  forget 
These  ghostly  sorrows ! 

He  crushes  her  half-passive  body  still  closer. 

Give  me  of  your  lips 
As  once,  on  Leucate,  so  long  ago ! 

Sappho 
Oh,  free  me,  Phaon ! 

Phaon 

Not  until  you  lie 
At  rest,  and  willingly,  within  my  arms! 

Sappho 
Oh,  free  me,  but  a  moment ! 

Phaon 

Nevermore  l 

Sappho 

This  is  the  costliest  last  kiss  of  all 
Your  life  .  .  .  and  mine ! 


SAPPHO    IN    LEUCADIA  263 

Phaon 

I  care  not  what  it  costs, 
It  crowns  me  with  a  peace  —  above  the  gods ! 

She  shudders,  but  lies  passive  in  his  arms,  her  own 
creeping  about  him.  Her  hand  falls  to  his  knife, 
which  slie  withdraws,  raises,  and  sinks  deep  in  his 
side.  His  arms  droop  away,  he  crumbles  down  at  her 
feet,  without  a  word,  dead.  She  scarcely  moves  as 
she  gazes  at  the  body.  The  two  figures  are  bathed 
in  the  full  golden  light  of  the  sunset.  The  voice  of 
Erinna  calls  from  the  distance.  Sappho  turns  with  a 
haunted  look,  raises  her  arms,  and  leaps  into  the  sea. 
Faintly,  from  the  harbor  beyond  the  cliff  sounds  the 
chords  of  "  The  Sailors'  Hymn  to  Sunset"  as  the 
light  slowly  pales  and  passes. 

Curtain 


264  THE   THREE   VOICES 


THE  THREE  VOICES 

VKTHEN  the  fire  sinks  flame  by  flame 

And  the  shadows,  Dear,  grow  long, 
Shall  I  turn  for  praise  or  blame 
To  the  Brazen-Throated  Throng? 

When  the  last  poor  deed  is  done, 
Shall  I  look,  O  Good  and  True, 

To  the  old  friends  one  by  one, 
The  Silver-Throated  Few? 

Nay,  all  that  I  strove  to  do, 

However  it  end,  was  done 
For  You  and  the  love  of  You, 

The  Golden-Throated  One ! 


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